VOCATIONS 


GERALD    CTDONOVAN 


* 


!*. 


^  7OCATIONS>"  by  Gerald  O'Donovan 
W  (Btoni  &  LIverlght),  1».  so  we 
are  told,  a  great  novel.  It  cornea 
•with  the  Indorsement  of  no  leas  a 
personage  than  George  Moore,  and  we 
believe  John  V.  A.  Weaver  also  has  been 
singing  its  praises.  We  flnd  the  book  ex- 
ceedingly well  written,  well  constructed 
technically,  sustaining  the  interest 

throughout,  another  evidence  of  the  skil! 
with  which  middle-aged  Englishmen  or 
(beg  your  pardon)  Irishmen  can  write. 
The  story  deals  with  two  sisters  In  an 
Irish  family,  both  of  ^hom  Intend  to 
enter  a  convent.  One  ife  emotional  and  In- 
terested in  a  young  priest  and  this  senti- 
mental attachment  and  the  surety  that 
she  will  see  him  often  leads  her  to  wel- 
come the  veil.  The  other  young  woman, 
more  material  In  her  outlook,  takes  the 
veil  after  her  romance  Is  shattered. 
Then  she  repents  and  Mr.  O'Donovan 
sketches  the  pressure  that  is  brought  to 
bear  on  her  to  remain  in  the  convent.  She 
j  leaves  finally  by  force,  of  her  own  will. 
We  can  give  no  guaranty  for  the  verisi- 
militude of  the  tale,  for,  unlike  George 
Moore,  we  know  nothing  about  Irish  con- 
vents. Francis  Hackett,  however,  says  It 
Is  "irreproachably  honest."  That  It  Is 
skillfully  done  both  in  situation  and 
character  drawing  we  herewith  testify. 


VOCATIONS 

The  "Informer-Complex" 


To  the  Editor  of  The  Literary  Review: 

SIR:  Your  notice  of  "Vocations"  seems 
to  be  disapproved  by  those  who  like  the 
kind  of  thing  that  Mr.  George  Moore  likes, 
that  Mr.  Francis  Hackett  likes,  that  Mr. 
Horace  Liveright  likes,  that  Mr.  John  Macy 
likes,  that  a  lady  reviewer  of  the  Times 
(her  name  escapes  me)  likes,  and  that  a 
Herald  reviewer  (his  name  I  have  also  for- 
gotten) likes.  You  will  have  to  endure 
that  as  best  you  may. 

I  have  a  theory  concerning  books  like 
this  of  Mr.  O'Donovan,  like  those  of  Mr. 
Joyce,  those  of  Mr.  George  Moore,  and  a 
few  others  that  have  been  produced  of 
late  in  Ireland— all  of  which  have  been 
joyously  welcomed  in  some  "literary"  circles 
in  this  country  and  in  England — and  I 
would  be  grateful  if  some  reader  who  is 
versed  in  psychoanalysis  would  give  judg- 
ment as  to  its  correctness. 

Three  things  have  been  dear  to  the  Irish 
people  from  time  immemorial — the  freedom 
of  their  country,  the  honor  of  their  women, 
and  the  honor  of  their  priests.  Yet  we  nave 
had  at  almost  all  critical  periods  in  the 
Irish  struggle  for  freedom  appearance  of 
the  unclean  figure  of  the  "informer."  They 
have  been  very  few  in  number,  no  doubr, 
but  the  hatred  and  loathing  that  they  have 
inspired  in  the  people  whom  they  have  be- 
trayed have  served  to  make  them  stand 
out  in  bold  relief  as  the  one  complete  type 
of  unpardonable  infamy.  All  countries  have 
had  their  traitors,  their  "informers,"  but  in 
one  country  only  have  they  been  so  repro- 
bated into  immortality. 

My  theory  is  that  rhe  -'informer-complex" 
and  the  "complex -  which  produces  in  Ire- 
lard  the  literature  to  wbich  I  have  referred 
are  one  and  the  same  au  fond.  Cowardice, 
no  doubt,  and.  greed  of  money  were  among 
the  motives  of  the  "informer,"  but  there 
always  seemed  to  be  underlying  these  some 
unnamed  or  unnamable  desire  to  destroy 
that  which  to  others  was  most  sacred  and 
most  dearly  cherished.  In  no  other  way 
could  one  account  fully  for  the  "informer's" 
acts,  however  incomprehensible  such  desire 
may  «c'(.ni. 

Nov  the  kind  of  thing  which  Mr.  O'Don- 
ovan has  written,  which  Mr.  Geo^e  Moore 
likes,  which  Mr.  Francis  Hackett  likes,  which 
Mr.  Horace  Liveright  likes,  which  Vr.  John 
Macv  likes,  which  the  lady  reviewer  of  the 


Times  likes,  and  which  the  Herald  reviewer 
likes  seems  to  me  to  evince  the  same  in- 
comprehensible desire  to  befoul  things  in- 
expressibly sacred  to  Irishmen.  No  mere 
desire  of  money  furnished,  not  by  the  Brit- 
ish Government  this  time,  but  by  readers 
who  like  this  sort  of  thing,  can  account  for 
the  zest,  for  the  ardor,  the  loving  care 
with  which  it  is  done.  Am  I  wrong  in ^  dis- 
cerning at  work  the  "informer-complex"?^ 
I  have  been  told  (I  do  not  know  if  it  is 
true,  but  I  hope  it  is)  that  in  Spain  the 
one  last  unpardonable  insult  that  one  man 
can  offer  to  another  is  to  tell  him  that  he 
is  "without  shame."  Has  not  Mr.  George 
Moore  told  us  that  the  only  thing  to  be 
ashamed  of  is  of  being  ashamed? 
Faithfully  yours, 

THOMAS  F.  WOODLOCK. 


VOCATIONS 

GERALD  O'DONOVAN 


BONI  AND  LIVERIGHT 

PUBLISHERS    :   NEW  YORK 


VOCATIONS 

COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 

BONI    &    LlVERIGHT,    INC. 

First  Printing,  March,  1922 
Second  Printing,  September,  1922 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


C hapt er  1 

WINNIE  CURTIN  pounded  the  keyboard  of  the 
shining  Bechstein. 
At  school  she  had  chosen  as  her  motto  age 
quod  agis.    It  was  written  under  her  name  in 
her  many  prayer  books.    It  stared  at  her  in  large  blue  letters 
from  the  end  rail  of  her  bed.    It  was  worked  in  blue  silk  on 
the  linen  cover  of  her  dressing-table,  and  in  blue  wool  on  the 
reed  matting  at  the  back  of  her  washstand.    It  was  inscribed 
on  the  inner  case  of  her  watch,  on  the  flaps  of  her  purse  and 
handbag.    In  spare  moments  she  printed  the  words  in  blue 
on  slips  of  white  cardboard  which  she  kept  in  the  corner  of 
her  workbox,  awaiting  suitable  use. 

The  motto  was  pasted  on  the  first  page  of  the  overture  to 
the  Huguenots,  arranged  for  four  hands,  now  in  front  of 
her,  and  inspired  her  treatment  of  the  treble.  Her  lower 
nature  preferred  to  play  bass,  but  her  motto  impelled  her  to 
choose  the  more  difficult  part.  Kitty  preferred  the  treble; 
but  Kitty  did  not  realize  the  sacrificial  uses  of  music.  She 
played  because  she  liked  playing  and  not  for  the  good  of  her 
soul. 

Winnie  thumped,  counted,  frowned  and  wriggled.  She 
struck  a  wrong  note,  gave  an  impatient  exclamation,  bit  her 
lip  and  glanced  apprehensively  at  the  motto.  She  said  an 
ejaculatory  prayer  to  St.  Stanislaus,  to  obtain  for  her  the 
grace  to  do  her  allotted  task  wholeheartedly,  but  calmly. 
"Age  quod  agis"  she  muttered  fiercely  through  her  white 
teeth.  It  was  a  favourite  saying  of  St.  Stanislaus,  her 
favourite  saint.  Some  day  he  would  make  her  calm  and 
collected  like  himself.  Work  and  prayer  were  the  great 
means;  always  to  keep  her  hands  busy;  to  keep  her  mind 
fixed  on  the  things  of  God,  and  off  the  vanities  of  a  wicked 
world.  .  .  .  One,  two,  three.  There,  wrong  again.  She 
frowned  petulantly,  pushed  back  off  her  damp  forehead  a 
strand  of  limp,  fair  hair,  craned  her  neck  upwards  so  as 
5 

2057976 


6  Vocations 

to  see  her  reflections  in  the  mirror  hanging  on  the  end  wall 
of  the  drawing-room.  She  patted  her  hair,  a  faint  smile 
puckering  the  corners  of  her  lips.  What  a  mercy  it  did  not 
easily  get  out  of  curl !  Her  blue  eyes  glowed.  She  moved 
her  head  in  order  to  get  the  most  attractive  view  of  her 
slightly  tip-tilted  nose.  She  sighed.  It  wasn't  straight  like 
Kitty's.  But,  then,  Sister  Fulalie  said  that,  in  the  world, 
snub  noses  were  very  much  admired.  She  blushed,  glanced 
apologetically  at  her  motto  on  the  neglected  music  sheet, 
shut  her  eyes  and  said  three  Hail  Marys  as  a  penance  for 
vain  thoughts. 

"Winnie.  Winnie,  Father  Burke !"  in  a  mocking  voice  cut 
off  the  third  Hail  Mary  in  the  middle. 

"Where,  Kitty,  where?"  Winnie  said  excitedly,  bounding 
off  the  music  seat  and  rushing  towards  the  window,  near 
which  her  sister  Kitty  was  seated  in  a  low  arm-chair. 

"He  has  just  crossed  the  street,"  Kitty  said,  her  brown 
eyes  staring  idly  at  the  market  crowd  chattering  in 
groups  on  the  road. 

Winnie  clutched  the  red  rep  curtain,  drew  it  forward  a 
little  to  shield  herself  from  prying  eyes,  and  peered  at  the 
crowd. 

"I  don't  see  him,"  she  said  dolefully. 

"Of  course,  he's  standing  in  the  street  for  you  to  look  at 
him." 

Winnie  blushed  and  pouted  her  pretty  lips.  She  stood  up 
straight  and  listened.  After  a  few  seconds  she  said  in  a 
disappointed  tone : 

"He  hasn't  knocked." 

"Oh,  bother  him,"  Kitty  said,  taking  up  the  open  book 
which  lay  on  her  knees.  "He!  Himl  as  if  he  were  the 
only  man  in  the  world." 

"You're  a  cold  fish,"  Winnie  said  angrily. 

Kitty  smiled  with  closed  lips,  her  eyes  fixed  on  her  book. 

"You've  no  heart,"  Winnie  added,  snatching  at  the  book ; 
"sitting  there,  pretending  to  read." 

"He's  only  a  priest."  Kitty,  with  a  shrug,  yielded  the 
book  without  a  struggle. 


Vocations  7 

"Such  a  way  to  speak  of  a  holy  man,"  Winnie  said,  pout- 
ing. 

Kitty  gave  a  low,  rounded  laugh,  stood  up  lazily  and 
stared  at  the  street. 

"There's  blind  Lanty  passing,"  she  said,  with  a  bored  sigh. 

"Poor,  dear  old  Lanty.  I  gave  him  his  sixpence  yester- 
day." Winnie  pushed  Kitty  aside  and  eagerly  watched  the 
old  man  thread  his  way  carefully  helped  by  a  black-and- 
white,  blear-eyed  mongrel  and  a  heavy  blackthorn  stick, 
through  the  thinning  crowds. 

Kitty  laughed  again.  "Lanty  is  a  holy  man,  yet  you 
aren't  gone  on  him,"  she  said,  with  a  quizzical  look  at  her 
sister. 

Winnie  blushed  a  vivid  pink.  "You're  a  horrid  girl;  I 
won't  speak  to  you  again  this  evening."  She  stalked  to  the 
piano,  her  head  in  the  air.  "It's  all  those  novels.  Hiding 
all  day  behind  the  curtain  and  pretending  to  read !  Just  to 
get  a  look  at  Dr.  Thornton.  You  won't  practise  your  pieces 
or  do  anything.  Sister  Eulalie  is  right.  Your  heart  is  too 
much  in  the  world.  Remember  how  she  warned  us  against 
novels.  A  slippery  path  to  sin  and  hell,  she  called  them. 
I  can  see  you  sliding  down  deeper  every  day,"  she  added 
venge  fully,  flopping  on  to  the  music  seat  and  running  her 
fingers  over  the  keyboard. 

Kitty  yawned  and  continued  to  watch  the  street.  The 
dust  was  a  golden  brown  under  the  slating  eyes  of  the  July 
sun.  Home-going,  empty  carts  lumbered  along  in  a  quiver- 
ing haze,  the  harness,  the  painted  wood  of  the  carts,  the 
bronzed  faces  of  the  drivers  reflecting  reddish  lights.  At 
the  edge  of  the  pavement  a  group  of  men  chaffered  beside 
a  crib  of  unsold  calves.  The  crowds  dispersing  to  their 
homes,  to  shops  or  public-houses  seemed  to  take  away  with 
them  all  the  energy  of  the  few  remaining  bargainers.  The 
strident  voices  of  the  morning  had  sunk  to  a  dull  "take 
them  or  leave  them"  monotone. 

Winnie's  anger  faded  away  at  the  sight  of  her  motto, 
which  reminded  her  again  of  her  soul  and  of  her  duty  to 


8  Vo  cations 

God.  She  accused  herself  of  "horridness"  towards  her 
sister  and  murmured  words  of  sorrow  under  her  breath. 
She  must  make  it  up  with  Kitty.  Of  course,  Kitty  meant 
nothing  wrong  about  Dr.  Thornton.  No  nice  convent  girl 
ever  did.  And  there  really  was  nothing  much  for  her  to 
do  except  to  look  out  of  the  windows.  She  did  her  share  of 
the  dusting;  and  even  if  she  had  the  whole  of  the  dusting 
as  her  charge  it  wouldn't  take  long.  It  was  a  pity  that  she 
didn't  care  more  for  devotional  books,  but  Kitty  was  like 
that.  And  as  Sister  Eulalie  said,  one  must  leave  her  to  God 
who  would  speak  to  her  heart  in  His  own  good  time.  She 
couldn't  help  seeing  Dr.  Thornton  who  passed  so  often  on 

his  rounds.    What  if Winnie  took  her  fingers  off  the 

keys,  sat  bolt  upright  on  the  music  seat,  turned  sideways 
and  looked  at  Kitty.  It  would  break  her  own  heart,  but  that 
was  nothing  if  it  made  Kitty  happy.  She  couldn't  wish  it 
for  her,  for  at  the  best  it  would  only  be  a  second  best,  and 
Kitty  deserved  the  best  in  the  world.  Of  course,  Kitty  must 
be  a  nun.  As  Sister  Eulalie  said,  they  would  storm  heaven 
for  the  grace  of  a  vocation  for  her.  Sister  Eulalie  was 
praying,  and  all  the  Mercy  nuns — they  had  just  finished  their 
third  novena.  And  the  Dominicans  were  praying  hard — it 
was  very  good  of  them,  though  they  knew  that  if  God  heard 
their  prayers  Kitty  would  enter  the  Mercy  convent  to  which 
she,  Winnie,  had  already  dedicated  herself.  And  the  dearest 
Sacred  Hearts,  to  whom  her  own  vocation  was  due,  prayed 
daily  that  Kitty  should  have  light.  But  if  all  their  efforts 
failed — of  course,  they  couldn't  fail,  aided  as  they  were  by 
the  weekly  Mass  Father  Burke  said  for  Winnie's  intention, 
and  the  candles  she  offered  every  evening  at  the  Blessed 
Virgin's  altar  in  the  parish  church — but  supposing  they  did 
fail,  Dr.  Thornton  would  be  splendid.  He  was  so  good- 
looking,  so  well  dressed.  .  .  .  Her  narrow  forehead  puckered 
and  she  stared  at  the  back  of  Kitty's  head  with  a  troubled 
look.  He  was  a  relation  of  the  Thorntons  of  Thornton 
Grange.  A  distant  relation,  but  still  he  was  a  Thornton. 
And  the  Curtins  were  only  shopkeepers.  Even  the  dearest 
Sacred  Hearts  were  always  put  out  when  one  spoke  of  the 


Fo  cations 

shop,  and  insisted  that  the  girls  at  St.  Margaret's  were  never 
on  any  account  to  be  told  of  it.     But,  perhaps,  Dr.  Thorn- 
ton wouldn't  mind?     He  had  such  a  pleasant  smile   for 
everybody ;  and  blind  Lanty  said  he  was  the  grandest  gentle- 
man and  the  humblest  man  on  the  face  of  God's  earth.    And 
she  had  often  seen  him  look  at  them  when  she  and  Kitty 
passed  him  in  the  street.     One  wasn't  supposed  to  notice 
that,  and  she  always  kept  her  eyes  down  or  straight  in  front 
of  her  when  they  met  him,  but  somehow  she  knew.    What 
a  pity  they  didn't  know  him.     If  only  old  Dr.  Timmins 
retired  or  went  to  heaven  or  something,  then  they  could 
have  Dr.  Thornton  as  their  doctor.    Of  course,  she  meant 
no  harm  to  Dr.  Timmins,  but  he  was  aggravating.    God  for- 
give her  for  having  such  thoughts.     Besides,  marriage  was 
a  subject  one  should  not  think  about.     She  would  leave  it 
all  in  God's  hands  and  pray.     If  God  wouldn't  have  Kitty 
as  a  nun,  He  would  surely  do  the  best  for  her  in  the  lower 
state  of  marriage.     In  some  way  He  would  bring  it  about 
that  they  should  know  Dr.  Thornton  and  He  would  move 
the  Doctor's  heart  towards  Kitty.     She  said  an  ejaculatory 
prayer.    These  were  dangerous  subjects  and  she  must  not 
dwell  on  them.    Besides,  it  was  all  nonsense,  as  Kitty  was 
sure  to  be  a  nun.    She  played  a  few  bars  with  hard  mechan- 
ical correctness  and  said  in  a  conciliatory  tone : 

"Kitty,  dear,  will  you  play  our  piece  now?     I  think  I 
know  it." 

Kitty  withdrew  her  eyes  from  the  struggle  of  two  obstin- 
ate pigs  with  their  driver,  and  turned  round  with  a  sigh. 
"Haven't  we  had  enough  of  it  for  one  day?"  she  said. 
"Duty,  dear,"  Winnie  said  firmly,  holding  up  a  warning 
finger. 

"No.    I  won't  play.    I  hate  it.    I  hate  everything.    I  wish 
I  was  dead." 

"Kitty,  darling,"  Winnie  said  in  a  horrified  voice,  her 
eyes  raised  towards  the  ceiling.    Her  lips  moved  in  prayer 
to  avert  immediate  punishment  of  such  blasphemy. 
Kitty  shrugged  her  shoulders. 


10  Vocations 

"Haven't  you  ordered  tea?"  she  said,  with  a  frown. 
"Father  Burke  went  straight  into  the  shop.  He  must  have 
delayed  talking  to  mother,  but  he's  sure  to  come  up." 

Winnie  jumped  off  the  music  seat,  her  eyes  glowing  with 
pleasure. 

"Oh,  Kitty!  And  I've  been  sitting  there  doing  nothing. 
Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  Aren't  you  excited?  It  will  be 
such  a  treat." 

"Anything  for  a  change,"  Kitty  said  morosely.  She 
moved  Winnie's  music  stool  to  the  centre  of  the  piano,  sat 
down  and  began  a  Chopin  waltz. 

"Could  I  dare  ask  Peggy  to  leave  the  shop  ?  She's  sure  to 
be  helping  there  as  it's  market  evening,"  Winnie  said  doubt- 
fully. 

"If  you  don't  hurry  he'll  be  up  before  you're  ready.  And 
Peggy  won't  have  her  apron  on  or  anything.  And  she  may 
have  to  go  out  for  cakes,"  Kitty  said  ironically. 

"And  he  likes  cherry  cake.  Oh  my,  I'm  so  flustered.  And 
we  must  get  cigarettes  out  of  the  shop.  Do,  Kitty,  help. 
Fix  up  his  arm-chair  by  my  window.  Perhaps  we  ought  to 
say  we're  not  at  home.  It's  not  a  lie,  Sister  Eulalie  says.  I 
know  papa  won't  like  us  to  take  Peggy  out  of  the  shop  on 
such  a  busy  evening.  Can't  you  advise  me,  Kitty?" 

"As  if  your  mind  wasn't  made  up !"  Kitty  mocked  her. 

"I'm  not  gone  on  him — you  needn't  be  hinting  at  that. 
I'm  only  fond  of  him  as  a  good  priest.  Sister  Eulalie  says 
that's  quite  allowable.  And  you  know  you  said  yourself 
he  has  beautiful  eyes." 

"Poor  old  Winnie,"  Kitty  said  softly,  her  eyes  shut.  Her 
body  swayed  to  the  rhythym  of  the  waltz.  Her  pale  cheeks 
took  on  a  faint  tinge  of  pink.  Her  breath  came  quickly,  and 
once  or  twice  her  fine  nostrils  twitched  as  if  from  pain. 

Winnie  left  the  room  and  Kitty  played  on,  passing  from 
Chopin  to  Cesar  Franck  and  back  again  to  Chopin  with- 
out a  break. 

Winnie  came  back  and  busied  herself  about  the  room. 

"He's  still  in  the  shop.  Do  help,  Kitty,"  she  said  im- 
patiently. "I  can't  move  this  bureau  out  of  the  way  alone. 
I  thought  you  hated  playing?" 


Vocations  11 

Kitty  stood  up.  "This?  No,"  she  said,  with  a  frown, 
helping  to  move  the  writing-desk. 

A  small  tea-table  was  placed  near  the  window  by  the  fire- 
place. The  best  lace  tea-cloth  was  spread  on  the  table.  Father 
Burke's  arm-chair  was  drawn  near  the  table.  The  blind  was 
lowered  half-way  to  keep  off  the  sun  from  Father  Burke's 
face,  and  the  curtains  arranged  so  as  to  give  him  a  view  of 
the  street.  A  low  footstool  was  placed  on  the  spot  where, 
after  several  experiments,  Winnie  decided  his  feet  would 
rest. 

Peggy  Delaney,  rustling  in  a  clean  starched  apron,  brought 
in  the  tea  things,  bread  and  butter,  an  iced  cherry  cake,  a 
plate  of  mixed  cakes,  and  a  box  of  cigarettes.  Her  face  and 
hands  shone  from  a  recent  application  of  soap. 

Winnie  laid  the  table. 

"And,  Peggy,  the  tea  and  hot  water  the  very  moment  he 
comes  up,"  she  said  impressively. 

"Of  course,  miss.  Sure  and  don't  I  know  my  business.  I 
had  a  look  into  the  shop  on  my  way  up  and  it's  still  deep  in 
the  talk  himself  and  the  missus  is  over  the  counter.  But  I'll 
keep  an  eye  on  the  door  in  from  the  shop  and  keep  the  kettle 
on  the  boil." 

Peggy  Delaney  left  the  room.  Kitty  stood  at  the  window 
near  the  door  and  watched  the  street.  A  frieze-coated 
countryman  lurched  with  careful  steps  along  the  pavement 
opposite,  an  anxious-faced  little  woman  urging  him  forward 
by  the  arm.  He  stopped  with  a  jerk  and  stared  across  at 
Curtin's  shop. 

"Its'  no  use,  Nora,  no  use  at  all,"  he  said,  in  a  loud 
maudlin  voice.  "Sorra  step  home  I'll  go  till  I  bid  the  time 
of  day  to  my  friends,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Curtin.  There  they  are 
over  there.  Can't  you  read  the  signboard  ?  Thomas  Curtin 
and  Co. ;  not  but  what  that  signboard  is  a  damn  lie,  and  it's 
often  I  told  it  to  Tom  Curtin.  It's  Thomas  Curtin  and  wife 
and  daughters  it  should  be.  What  do  I  care  who  hears  me? 
Aye,  there's  one  of  the  daughters  peeping  out  of  the  window. 
The  high  stepper  of  the  two  it  is.  Good  luck  to  you,  miss, 


12  Vocations 

and  a  fine  strapping  husband.  It's  the  run  of  a  fine  pub 
he'll  have." 

He  waved  his  hat,  but  Kitty  had  precipitately  flown. 

"The  pub — always  the  pub,"  she  said  angrily. 

"Teas,  wines  and  spirits  and  general  merchants,"  Winnie 
corrected. 

"I  wouldn't  mind  if  I  were  let  serve  in  the  shop,"  Kitty 
said  passionately. 

Winnie  dropped  the  duster  with  which  she  was  polishing 
the  already  speckless  piano,  her  mouth  wide  open. 

"Kitty,  dear,  are  you  mad?  The  shop,  of  course,  is  the 
will  of  God  and  we  must  accept  it.  But  to  be  a  shop  girl,  a 
barmaid?  It's  dreadful  even  to  think  of  it." 

"Mother  is,"  Kitty  said  doggedly. 

"That  used  to  worry  me  too,"  Winnie  said,  looking 
thoughtful.  "But  Sister  Eulalie  gave  me  a  most  beautiful 
explanation  of  it.  Unless  father  and  mother  had  the  shop 
they  would  never  have  been  able  to  send  us  to  such  a 
high-class  school  as  dear  St.  Margaret's;  and  perhaps  we 
— that  is  /,  should  never  have  got  my  vocation.  The  ways 
of  God  are  wonderful,  she  said,  and  even  public-houses  enter 
into  the  divine  economy." 

"Mother  has  a  good  deal  of  fun  in  the  shop,"  Kitty  said, 
unmoved  by  Sister  Eulalie's  gloss  on  the  purpose  of  pubs. 

"It's  the  cheerfulness  of  the  obedient  soul,  Sister  Eulalie 
says,"  Winnie  said,  in  a  hushed  voice.  "Mother  doesn't 
really  enjoy  it.  Its  dreadful  for  her  mixing  up  with  all  these 
rough  men  and  women.  But  she  offers  it  up  as  a  willing 
sacrifice  before  the  throne  of  God  for  our  sakes.  We  ought 
to  be  very  grateful  to  her,  Kitty,  and  do  everything  she 
wishes  us  to  do." 

She  looked  keenly  at  Kitty,  nodding  significantly  as  she 
said  the  last  words. 

"Fudge,"  Kitty  said,  with  a  toss  of  her  head.  "Mother 
enjoys  every  minute  of  it.  She'd  be  lost  without  the  gossip 
from  morning  till  night.  She's  restless  if  she's  out  of  the 
shop  for  half  an  hour.  She'd  be  ill  if  she  were  kept  out  of 


Vocations  13 

it  for  a  day.  It's  no  use  your  hinting  at  the  convent  for  me. 
I'm  sick  of  nuns.  I  don't  care  what  mother  wants.  I 
won't  do  it." 

"Kitty,  darling!  the  will  of  God?"  Winnie  said,  deeply 
distressed. 

"The  will  of  mother  and  Sister  Eulalie,"  said  Kitty 
recklessly. 

"That's  blasphemy.    May  God  forgive  you,  Kitty." 

"I'm  just  as  fond  of  mother  as  you  are,"  Kitty  said.  "I 
know  she's  fond  of  us  and  that  she  slaves  in  the  shop  for  us. 
She  sent  us  to  St.  Margaret's  to  make  ladies  of  us.  All  she 
has  done  for  me  is  to  make  me  bored  to  death.  We  dress  up 
in  the  morning  and  sit  here  all  day  without  seeing  a  soul. 
If  I  look  out  of  the  window  it's  not  because  I  like  the  street 
or  find  much  to  interest  me  in  it,  but  because  I  hate  the 
room." 

"What's  come  over  you,  Kitty?  It's  a  beautiful  room." 
Winnie  looked  round  with  admiration  at  the  shining  mahog- 
any furniture,  the  spotless  blue  silk  upholstering,  the  red 
rep  curtains,  the  coloured  statue  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  in 
one  corner,  the  bamboo  whatnots  laden  with  count- 
less china  ornaments  in  the  other  corners,  the  light  blue 
walls  almost  concealed  by  copies  in  oils,  heavy  gilt 
frames,  of  popular  pictures  which  had  appeared  in  Christ- 
coloured  supplements  of  the  Graphic  and  Illustrated 
London  News  for  ten  years  past. 

"Beautiful !"  she  repeated  ecstatically.  "All  our  beauti- 
ful pictures  and  embroideries." 

"Even  Father  Burke  knows  they're  rubbish,"  Kitty  said 
contemptuously.  "It  was  bad  enough  to  have  to  do  them, 
but  it  makes  me  sick  to  have  to  look  at  them  every  day." 

"You  know  you're  talking  nonsense."  Winnie  gave  an 
uneasy  laugh.  "You're  just  pretending  to  be  clever.  All 
the  nuns  admired  them.  And  Mother  Davoren  said  they 
were  really  choice.  It's  that  talk  you  picked  up  from  the 
man  who  took  Mother  Davoren's  place  when  she  was  ill 
that  month." 


14  Vo  c  at  ions 

Kitty  blushed.  "And  if  we  don't  sit  here  where  have  we 
to  go?" 

"Well,  there's  our  walk  every  day.  And  we  are  allowed 
out  twice  if  it  is  fine,  and  our  boating  in  summer,  and  our 
little  visits  to  the  church  and  to  the  convents." 

"And  you're  twenty-one  and  I'm  nineteen  and  a  half," 
Kitty  said  hysterically.  "My  God,  what  a  life!  Never 
allowed  to  speak  to  anyone  but  blind  Lanty  and  a  few  beg- 
gars. Everyone  we  pass  on  the  street  is  either  someone 
we're  not  allowed  to  speak  to  or  someone  who  won't  speak  to 
us.  We're  either  'the  stuck-up  Miss  Curtins,'  or  'those 
dolls,  Tom  Curtin  the  publican's  daughters.' " 

"You  shouldn't  listen " 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind.  But  I  can't  help  hearing  the  remarks 
people  make.  That's  just  what  we  are,  dressed-up,  clock- 
work dolls.  No  wonder  people  set  their  watches  by  us. 
'There  are  the  Miss  Curtins  going  for  their  walk !  It's  eleven 
o'clock,'  That's  what  they  say." 

"Sister  Eulalie  says  fixed  hours  are  everything.  Regu- 
larity is — T— " 

"Do  shut  up,  Winnie,"  Kitty  interrupted  desperately. 
"It's  all  getting  on  my  nerves  till  I'm  nearly  half  mad.  I 
want — I  don't  know  what  I  want.  Have  you  ever  felt 
like  a  human  being?" 

"I  wonder  what's  keeping  Father  Burke,"  Winnie  said, 
with  a  blush. 

"I  haven't  even  a  Father  Burke." 

"You're  very  wicked,  Kitty." 

"If  you  say  another  word  I'll  take  him  from  you," 
Kitty  said  contemptuously. 

Winnie  burst  into  tears.  "You're  a  horrid,  nasty  girl," 
she  said,  between  sobs.  "You  took  Mother  Davoren  from 
me  and  you  didn't  care  a  pin  for  her.  And  I  can  see  that 
Sister  Eulalie  likes  you  better  than  she  likes  me.  It's  not 
fair.  And  you  hate  her  and  I'd  die  for  her.  You've  always 
had  the  best  of  everything  with  your  brown  hair  with  that 
gold  in  it,  and  your  brown  eyes  and  your  nose  and  chin.  And 


Vocations  15 

a  complexion  that  never  gets  mottled.  Even  holy  people  are 
attracted  by  these  things.  You  make  me  miserable." 

"Whatever  I  want  it's  not  Father  Burke,"  Kitty  said, 
with  a  shrug.  "I  won't  even  hand  him  his  tea,  if  you  like. 
You  can  light  his  cigarette  and  everything." 

"He's  such  a  perfect  priest,"  Winnie  sobbed  inconse- 
quently. 

There  was  a  loud  knock  at  the  door  and  Peggy  Delaney 
came  in  with  a  tray  on  which  were  a  teapot,  a  hot-water 
kettle  and  a  muffin  plate  overflowing  with  hot  buttered 
scones. 

"What's  wrong,  Peggy?  He  hasn't "  Winnie  cried, 

in  a  horrified  voice,  pausing  in  her  efforts  to  dry  her 
eyes. 

"Gone  he  is  without  a  doubt  of  it,"  Peggy  said  dramati- 
cally. "If  I  looked  in  once  I  looked  in  ten  times  and  there 
he  was  in  the  thick  of  the  talk  with  your  mother.  And  the 
next  time  there  she  was  weighing  out  a  pound  of  tea  for 
Mrs.  Gallagher  of  Cluny  and  no  sight  nor  tidings  of  him. 
I  rushed  round  to  the  front  door,  thinking  he  might  have 
gone  round  that  way,  and  if  I  didn't  see  him  half-way  down 
the  street,  going  in  the  Muldoon's  door." 

"He'd  never  go  and  have  tea  with  them"  said  Winnie 
fiercely. 

"Is  it  with  them  trapesers?"  Peggy  pursed  her  lips  as 
she  put  the  tray  on  the  table.  "Father  Burke  is  a  real  quality 
priest.  Sorra  wet  his  lips  with  tea  he  would  in  any  house 
round  here,  but  at  Thornton  Grange  and  maybe  at  Lawyer 
Finnegan's  and  here  with  yourself  and  Miss  Kitty." 

"I  suppose  mother  couldn't  come  up?"  Winnie  said,  with 
a  relieved  sigh. 

Peggy  threw  up  her  hands  in  despair.  "Thronging  ten 
deep  in  front  of  the  counter  the  people  are  with  the  delay 
Father  Burke  put  on  them.  She'll  not  be  able  to  stir  out 
of  it  before  nine  or  ten  o'clock  this  night  except  for  the  cup 
of  tea  I'll  smuggle  into  the  snuggery  for  her  now  and  again." 

Winnie  and  Kitty  sat  down  to  tea  in  silence.  Winnie 
poured  out  the  tea  with  trembling  fingers.  Kitty  uncovered 


16  Vocations 

the  scones  and  held  out  the  plate  to  Winnie  who  said  in  a 
whisper : 

"I  can't  eat  anything." 

"He's  sure  to  come  to-morrow,"  Kitty  said  unsympatheti- 
cally,  helping  herself  to  a  scone. 

Winnie  took  an  occasional  sip  of  tea  and  an  occasional 
furtive  glance  at  a  photograph  of  Father  Burke  in  a  silver 
frame  on  the  top  of  the  piano.  Suddenly  a  worried  look 
overspread  her  face  and  she  got  up. 

"I  think  I'll  print  some  of  my  mottoes,"  she  said. 

"Do,  dear,"  Kitty  said  mechanically. 

Winnie  sat  at  her  desk  and  absorbed  herself  in  the  delicate 
lettering.  Kitty  ate  steadily,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  pavement 
across  the  street.  She  ate  hot  scones,  bread  and  butter  and 
two  small  cakes.  Once  she  looked  unhesitatingly  at  the 
open  box  of  cigarettes. 

"I  wonder  if  I  might?"  she  said. 

"What,  dear?" 

"Take  a  cigarette.    I  often  think  it  would  be  a  help." 

"Oh,  Kitty,"  Winnie  said,  putting  down  her  pen  hastily. 
"What  would  mother  say  and  Sister  Eulalie?  Only  fast 
women  do  that." 

Kitty  shrugged  her  shoulders.  She  stood  up  and  walked 
listlessly  to  her  usual  seat  by  the  window  next  the  door. 
She  took  up  a  book  and  held  it  open  on  her  knees,  but  her 
eyes  were  fixed  dreamily  on  the  opposite  pavement. 

Winnie's  pen  scratched  lightly  on  the  cardboard.  The 
slanting  sun  fell  directly  on  the  upper  part  of  the  windows, 
heating  the  room  through  the  thin,  half -drawn  blue  blinds. 
The  faint  breeze  coming  through  the  open  lower  sashes  was 
hot. 

"The  room  is  suffocating,"  Kitty  said  drearily. 

"Shall  we  have  our  evening  walk,  dear?"  Winnie  asked, 
holding  up  a  completed  motto  and  regarding  it  with  critical 
admiration. 

"No.    I  hate  walking." 

"Then  I'll  do  another  motto,"  Winnie  said,  with  alacrity. 

A  tall,  broad-shouldered  man  in  boating  flannels  passed  up 


Vocations  17 

the  street.  Kitty  held  her  breath.  He  nodded  with  a  pleas- 
ant smile  to  someone  hidden  from  her  on  her  side  of  the 
street.  She  drew  back  to  the  shade  of  the  curtain.  John 
Thornton!  What  a  fit  name  for  him.  Jack,  his  cousin, 
Daisy,  at  St.  Margaret's,  called  him.  Jack  Thornton.  He 
was  doctor  to  the  convent,  too.  Winnie  would  know  him 
there.  Nuns  weren't  so  badly  off,  after  all.  He  was  going 
on  the  river. 

"  It's  so  hot  I  think  I'll  go  out,"  she  said,  rising. 

"  You  are  a  fuss-pot.  First  you  won't  and  then  you  will," 
Winnie  said,  putting  aside  her  pen  reluctantly. 

Kitty  rushed  ahead  to  their  joint  bedroom,  but  was  last  to 
reach  the  hall  door. 

Winnie  stood  hesitating  on  the  pavement. 

"  The  Hill  or  the  river  ?  "  she  said  doubtfully. 

"  The  river." 

They  walked  along  the  street  towards  the  bridge  with  the 
precise,  even  step  they  had  been  taught  at  the  convent.  They 
held  their  sunshades  exactly  as  they  had  been  taught.  There 
was  something  girlish  about  their  print  muslin  dresses  and 
blue  sashes,  their  broad-brimmed  straw  hats  with  blue  rib- 
bons. But  their  fresh  young  faces,  cool  under  the  glowing 
sun,  were  girlish  too. 

From  their  house  to  the  bridge  they  passed  without  recog- 
nition a  dozen  people  whom  they  had  known  by  sight  all 
their  lives.  They  did  not  know  them.  A  few  men  raised 
their  hats.  The  girls  made  little  stiff  self-conscious  bows 
and  blushed  prettily.  Winnie  made  as  if  to  cross  the  bridge, 
but  Kitty,  with  a  quick  movement,  succeeded  in  heading  her 
down  the  road  along  the  river-bank. 

"  I  thought  we'd  pay  a  little  visit  to  the  Blessed  Sacra- 
ment," Winnie  said,  in  mild  protest. 

"  There's  more  air  here.  We  can  go  to  the  church  later," 
Kitty  said,  eagerly  scanning  the  few  boats  on  the  river. 

They  spoke  in  a  low  tone,  little  above  a  whisper,  as  be- 
fitted conversation  on  a  public  road.  As  they  approached 
the  old  black-and-white  boathouse  in  which  the  half-dozen 
boats  of  the  town  were  kept,  Winnie  said  daringly : 


18  Vocations 

"  Shall  we  go  on  the  river  for  half  an   hour?  " 

"  Without  special  permission  ?  " 

"  Oh,  let's,"  Winnie  said,  half  fearfully.  "  On  a  market 
day  when  mother  is  busy  we  can  presume  it." 

A  boy  rode  past  them  on  a  bicycle,  and  jumping  off  at  the 
door  of  the  boathouse,  called  out: 

"  Are  you  gone  yet,  Dr.  Thornton  ?  " 

"Think  of  him  being  here!"  Winnie  whispered,  with 
excitement. 

"  Imagine,"  Kitty  said  coldly. 

"  That  call  you  were  expecting  to  Gralla,"  the  boy  said, 
through  the  open  doorway. 

"  That  puts  the  lid  on  this  evening,  Conlan.  Put  back  my 
boat  again.  Better  luck  next  time." 

Both  girls  blushed  at  the  sound  of  the  deep  voice  echoing 
among  the  rafters  of  the  boathouse.  They  blushed  still  more 
deeply  as  Dr.  Thornton  almost  brushed  past  them  on  his 
way  out.  He  gave  them  a  keen  glance  and  hesitated  as  to 
whether  he  should  raise  his  hat.  Their  "  eyes  front  "  were 
not  encouraging.  He  muttered  "nice  kids"  against  his 
teeth,  jumped  on  the  bicycle  and  rode  off. 

"  I  don't  think  I  care  for  going  on  the  river  this  evening," 
Kitty  said,  turning  back  from  the  boathouse  door. 

"  One  never  knows  from  one  minute  to  another  what  you 
want." 

"  I  might  want  to  enter  the  convent,"  Kitty  said  sneer- 
ingly. 

"  God  hasn't  spoken  to  your  heart?    Has  He,  Kitty?  " 

"  He's  better  employed." 

Winnie  thought  this  a  very  wrong  expression  and  had  to 
press  her  lips  tightly  together  to  prevent  herself  from  saying 
so.  Kitty's  frequent  references  to  the  convent  to-day  were, 
however,  a  good  sign,  she  thought.  It  was  as  if  God  was  at 
last  calling  her  and  she  was  resisting.  But  if  God  was  call- 
ing her  resistance  would  be  useless.  A  little  visit  and  some 
extra  candles  at  the  shrine  of  the  Mother  of  Good  Counsel 
would  be  a  help. 

"  Where  shall  we  go  now  ?  "  she  said  timidly. 


V  ocations  19 

"  Anywhere." 

"A  little  visit  to  the  Blessed  Sacrament?  We  both  owe 
one." 

"  No." 

"  Sister  Eulalie  will  be  disengaged.  Shall  we  see  her  for 
a  minute  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  The  Dominicans  ?  " 

"  They  bore  me  stiff." 

"  What  else  is  there  to  do  ?  "  Winnie  asked  helplessly. 

"  To  go  home  and  go  to  bed." 

"  But  it's  hours  yet  to  ten  o'clock  and  mother  will  expect 
to  see  us  when  the  shop  closes." 

"  That's  true.  Let  us  walk  on  and  on  and  on,  for  miles 
and  miles  and  miles — to  the  end  of  the  worlji,"  Kitty  said 
recklessly. 

"  You're  mad,"  Winnie  said,  terror  stricken. 

"  Not  quite — I  think.  But  when  I  am  I'll  enter  the  con- 
vent. Come  back  and  let's  take  out  the  boat.  I'll  wet  you 
to  the  skin." 

Winnie  followed  meekly,  murmuring  ejaculatory  prayers 
under  her  breath. 


Chapter  2 

"f    •     ^HANK  God,  that's  all  done,"  Mrs.  Curtin  said, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief,  resting  her  arms  and  part 
of  her  ample  body  on  the  grocery  counter. 
JL  She  had  worked  hard  since  half -past  eight 

in  the  morning,  but  the  clock  above  the  whiskey  counter, 
now  declaring  half-past  nine  of  the  night,  looked  down  on  a 
fresh,  florid  face,  bearing  no  trace  of  fatigue.  Not  a  hair  of 
the  mouse-coloured  pile  that  crowned  her  head  was  disar- 
ranged. Except  a  switch  that  hardly  showed  it  was  all  her 
own  hair.  The  thin  spot  on  top  and  the  few  grey  hairs  at 
the  sides  were  a  secret  between  herself  and  her  mirror,  care- 
ful arrangement  concealing  them  even  from  her  daughters. 
Her  face,  her  flowing  bosom,  her  huge  cameo  brooch,  her 
heavy  gold  watch  chain  breathed  contentment.  Leaning  on 
the  counter  she  took  a  last  look  round  and  nodded  with  sat- 
isfaction. Not  a  sign  left  of  one  of  the  busiest  market  days 
she  had  experienced  for  thirty  years.  The  floor  was  swept 
clean  of  sawdust.  Pewter  and  glass  shone,  clean  and  pol- 
ished, on  their  appointed  shelves.  Stainless  counters  re- 
flected from  their  polished  surfaces  the  light  of  the  powerful 
gas  lamps.  Not  a  bottle  or  tin  was  out  of  place.  The  shop 
windows  had  been  shuttered.  The  shop  door  was  half  shut. 
Closing  hour  was  ten  o'clock,  but  it  was  well  known  in 
Drumbawn,  and  for  miles  around  it,  that  stray  customers 
were  not  welcome  at  Curtin's  after  nine  o'clock.  Two  white- 
aproned  assistants,  with  frequent  glances  at  the  clock,  flicked 
imaginary  dust  off  the  silvered  taps  of  the  spirit  barrels. 
The  only  worker  was  Tom  Curtin  who  sat  absorbed,  his 
spectacles  low  down  on  his  nose,  at  his  desk,  counting  the 
day's  takings. 

"  Harry !  Owen !  "  Mrs.  Curtin  called  out  in  a  muffled 
tone  which  was  supposed  not  to  disturb  her  husband,  almost 
at  her  elbow. 

20 


Vocations  21 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  both  the  assistants  answered  with  one 
voice. 

"You  can  take  off  your  aprons  now  and  have  a  breath  of 
fresh  air.  As  it  was  a  hard  day  you  can  stay  out  till  a 
quarter-past  ten.  I'll  shut  the  shop  myself." 

The  young  men  bobbed,  muttered  thanks  and  hurried 
away. 

Mrs.  Curtin  took  out  from  a  drawer  that  day's  unopened 
copy  of  the  Drumbawn  News,  put  on  her  spectacles,  glanced 
carelessly  at  a  few  of  the  headings,  refolded  the  paper  and 
replaced  it  in  the  drawer,  murmuring,  "  I  could  write  a  bet- 
ter paper  myself  with  far  fresher  news  in  it.  It's  so  stale 
that  'twill  keep  till  Sunday,  when  I'll  have  my  leisure." 

She  fumbled  with  a  pocket  underneath  her  skirt  and  drew 
out  her  rosary  beads.  Settling  herself  comfortably  on  the 
counter  she  prayed,  with  an  occasional  look  at  her  husband. 
The  bald  patch  on  his  crown  was  getting  worse.  That  last 
stuff  she  got  from  the  chemist  was  no  good  at  all.  And  all 
the  fine  words  he  said  about  it.  What  robbers  some  people 
were.  Thank  God  she  never  sold  a  drop  or  an  ounce  of 
stuff  that  wasn't  up  to  its  warranty.  The  grey  hair  only 
made  him  more  handsome.  She  must  trim  his  beard  again 
to-morrow.  What  were  the  girls  doing? 

Tom  Curtin  shut  his  desk  and  locked  it,  whistled  inaud- 
ibly,  stood  up  and  stroked  his  beard. 

Mrs.  Curtin  watched  him  out  of  the  corner  of  an  eye.  It 
must  have  been  a  great  day.  But  sure  she  knew  it  was  from 
what  passed  through  her  own  hands.  And  when  Tom 
whistled  like  that  and  rubbed  his  beard  it  was  always  for 
something  verv  extra.  What  a  fine  upstanding  man  he  was. 
It  was  from  him  Kitty  got  her  nose.  And  they  were  both 
a  bit  hot  in  the  temper.  She  replaced  her  beads  in  her 
pocket  and  waited  patiently.  You  couldn't  rush  Tom,  but 
if  you  only  gave  him  his  own  good  time  he'd  let  out  as  much 
as  was  good  for  you  to  know.  He  was  leaning  back  now 
against  the  well-stocked  shelves.  She  half  turned  towards 
him,  leaning  heavily  on  one  elbow. 

"  Not  tired,  Johanna  ?  "  he  said,  working  his  lips  rumina- 


22  Vocations 

tively  and  examining  the  shelves  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
shop. 

"  Nothing  to  speak  of,  a  little,  maybe,  in  the  feet.  The 
legs  aren't  as  young  as  they  were." 

"  Tut-tut.  You're  as  young  as  ever  you  were.  But  I 
think  we  can  run  to  a  chair  for  you  to  rest  your  legs.  Yes, 
Mrs.  Curtin,  I  think  we  can  afford  a  chair  for  you.  The 
girls  been  enjoying  themselves?  " 

"What  else  have  they  to  do  but  to  enjoy  themselves? 
Sure  you  give  them  every  comfort  and  pleasure  that  young 
girls  could  wish  for,  Tom  agra." 

"  We  keep  them  select,  Johanna.  We  keep  them  select," 
he  said  moodily. 

"  Sorra  more  ladylike  young  ladies  could  you  find  in  the 
whole  county,  or  the  next  one  either,  though  I'm  their 
mother  as  says  it.  They're  a  pattern  to  town  and  country." 

"  Happiness  is  the  great  thing,  Johanna.  To  have  them 
happy  as  well  as  good  is  my  great  aim.  A  dress  or  a  hat, 
now?  Anything  up  to  ten  pounds  or  so.  It  was  a  good 
day — a  very  good  day.  Three  new  wholesale  accounts  that 
promise  well.  Seventy  pounds  paid  in  that  I  struck  off  as 
a  bad  debt  ten  months  ago.  And  better  over-the-counter 
business  than  we  ever  did,  even  during  the  great  fair.  And 
don't  forget  a  hat  with  a  bunch  of  cherries  in  it  for  your- 
self. Big,  fat,  red  ones — they  become  you." 

"You  are  too  good  to  us  all,  Tom." 

"Tut-tut.  I  tell  you  the  young  ladies'  bank  account  is 
mounting  up.  They'll  be  warm  girls  for  a  man  to  marry, 
Johanna  Curtin." 

"  Winnie  is  as  good  as  promised  to  God  already."  Mrs. 
Curtin  shut  her  lips  tightly,  hard  lines  showing  at  the  cor- 
ners of  her  mouth. 

"It's  the  one  weak  spot  in  you  to  be  a  voteen,  Johanna. 
I  don't  doubt  but  you've  soft  sawdered  Winnie  into  the  con- 
vent, but  what  about  Kitty?  Tell  me  that  now?  " 

"  I  see  signs  of  it  in  her,  too."  Mrs.  Curtin  dropped  her 
eyes  and  fingered  with  some  uncertainty  a  twine-box  on  the 
counter. 


Vocations  23 

"And  what'll  become  of  the  shop  and  the  land?"  Curtin 
said  harshly,  rubbing  his  lip  with  the  nail  of  his  right 
thumb. 

"  We  have  a  long  life  before  us  yet,  please  the  Lord," 
Mrs.  Curtin  said  evasively. 

"  And  where,"  said  Curtin  vehemently,  "  will  the  business 
go  when  we're  under  the  sod  ?  " 

"  Into  the  hands  of  God  Himself  and  of  His  holy  nuns, 
I  hope  and  trust  and  pray,"  Mrs.  Curtin  said,  with  some 
spirit. 

Tom  Curtin  frowned  and  then  laughed.  He  pulled  his 
beard  and  patted  his  wife  on  the  shoulder. 

"  You're  a  great  hand  at  the  praying,  Johanna.  And  I'm 
all  for  it  ...  in  reason,"  he  said  seriously.  "  You've  done 
wonders  with  them  girls.  But  if  you  had  an  eye  in  your 
head  for  that  sort  of  thing  you'd  see  that  it'll  take  a  great 
deal  of  praying  to  get  Kitty  behind  a  convent  wall.  I'll  let 
you  have  Winnie,  as  she's  built  that  way,  but  Kitty  is  an- 
other pair  of  shoes." 

"  It'd  be  a  grand  thing  in  our  declining  years  to  have  the 
both  of  'em  up  there  on  top  of  the  hill,  praying  for  us" 
Johanna  said,  in  a  wheedling  tone.  "  And  think  of  the  com- 
fort it'd  be  to  us  and  we  dead.  Safe  they'd  be  from  all  the 
wickedness  and  trouble  of  the  world.  If  I  picked  a  good 
man  out  of  the  basket  itself  it's  not  every  woman  has  that 
luck." 

"  It's  a  wicked  world,  surely,"  he  said,  picking  at  his 
beard. 

He  straightened  a  pile  of  tea-paper. 

"  Tut-tut,  a  girl  must  take  her  chance,  and  there's  the  shop 
and  the  land  and  what  we  have  laid  by  to  think  of,"  he 
added. 

"  It's  a  tidy  penny,  I've  no  doubt,"  she  said. 

"  So,  so."  The  movement  of  his  hand  expressed  indiffer- 
ence. 

"  Mrs.  Muldoon  was  boasting  that  they  .have  twenty-five 
thousand  laid  by,"  she  said,  turning  round  and  facing  him. 

"  The  Muldoons !    I  know  people  with  twice  as  much  that 


24  Vocations 

boast  so  little  that  even  their  own  wives  don't  know  of  it." 

"  As  much  as  all  that  ?  "  she  said,  with  emotion. 

"And  there's  the  stock  and  good-will  and  the  book  debts 
and  the  three  farms,"  he  continued,  with  a  calculating  air. 
"  When  you  get  to  a  certain  stage,  Johanna,  it  rolls  up  on 
you  and  you  asleep." 

"  The  hand  of  God  was  in  it  all,"  she  said  impressively. 

"  No  doubt,  no  doubt.  But  our  own  hard  work  was  in  it, 
too.  They  say  a  watched  pot  never  boils,  but  it  was  by  dint 
of  watching  and  working  from  morning  till  night  that  we 
are  what  we  are.  It  was  a  struggling  business,  without  a 
penny  behind  it,  when  I  got  it  with  you,  Johanna,  twenty- 
two  years  ago.  See  it  now.  And  think  what  it  might  be- 
come if  we  got  the  right  sort  of  man  for  Kitty." 

"  Take  my  word  for  it,  Tom,  that  sort  of  man  isn't  to  be 
got  twice  running,"  she  said,  in  a  cajoling  tone,  with  an 
admiring  look.  "The  young  men  now  are  different  to  what 
they  were  in  your  day.  If  you  had  ten  eyes  in  your  head 
it's  someone  you'd  get  that'd  make  ducks  and  drakes  of  our 
business  in  a  twelvemonth." 

"The  pair  I  have  never  failed  me  yet,  though  I  have  to 
wear  spectacles  itself,"  he  said  sharply,  drawing  himself  up 
to  his  full  height. 

"  It's  not  one  of  them  counter  hands,  Henry  or  Owen, 
you  have  your  eye  on  ?" 

"  And  what  was  I  when  you  were  glad  to  get  me,  Mrs. 
Curtin  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  jocose  grin. 

"  I  might  have  known  you  had  too  much  pride  in  you  to 
demean  your  daughter."  She  spoke  with  relief,  reading  him 
in  the  light  of  a  long  experience. 

"  What  would  you  say  to  young  Duggan,  now  ? "  he 
asked,  gazing,  with  a  questioning  look,  at  the  ceiling. 

This  was  a  blow  and  hit  her  hard.  She  bit  her  lip  and 
gave  him  a  fierce  look  through  half -closed  lids.  She  stepped 
across  to  the  shelves,  moved  askew  a  green  tin,  that  pro- 
claimed in  gilt  letters,  "Finest  China  Tea,"  and  set  it 
straight  again.  She  went  back  to  the  counter,  supported  her 
back  against  it  and  crossed  her  hands  over  her  bosom. 


Vocatio'ns  25 

"  And  it  was  for  that  Whipper- Snapper  you  made  a  lady 
of  your  daughter  and  sent  her  to  the  most  elegant  school  in 
all  Ireland,  with  the  finest  quality  of  the  land,"  she  said, 
with  cold  deliberateness. 

"  If  it  goes  to  that,  he  was  at  college,"  he  defended  him- 
self. 

"  College  inagh !  "  She  snapped  her  fingers  with  wither- 
ing contempt. 

"  Nothing  but  a  hedge  school,  though  it's  run  by  priests 
itself.  Mrs.  Duggan  that  was,  God  rest  her,  once  tried  to 
boast  of  it  to  me,  but  I  soon  put  her  in  her  place.  The  pride 
of  the  school  was  a  son  of  them  wholesalers  in  Capel  Street, 
with  such  rotten  stuff  that  you  wouldn't  let  it  inside  your 
door,  even  if  the  whole  world  was  drained  dry  of  all  but 
what  they  had.  '  Tell  me  your  company,  and  I'll  tell  you 
what  you  are,  Mrs.  Duggan/  I  said  to  myself.  And  my  own 
daughters  hand-and-glove  with  the  daughters  of  three  Sirs 
and  a  General,  not  to  speak  of  half  a  dozen  landlords  and 
high-up  doctors  and  lawyers  and  the  like  up  in  St.  Mar- 
garet's. Don't  '  college '  me  with  your  Joe  Duggan.  He's 
a  counter-jumper,  nothing  more  nor  less.  Wasn't  he  three 
years  behind  the  counter  in  Arnott's  above  in  Dublin  ?  " 

Tom  Curtin  heard  her  through  impatiently.  He  glanced 
at  the  clock  and  compared  it  with  his  watch,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  muttered  "tut-tut,"  and  added  sharply,  "The 
whole  world  knows  he  was  apprenticed  to  the  wholesaling." 

"  And  what  does  he  want  to  know  drapery  wholesaling 
for  if  he's  going  to  run  his  father's  retail  drapery  in  Drum- 
bawn  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a  mixture  of  contempt  and  curi- 
osity. 

"  You'll  know  more  about  that  before  you're  many  min- 
utes older,"  he  said,  with  another  look  at  the  clock.  "  It's 
now  four  minutes  to  ten  o'clock.  His  father  said  he'd  come 
in  for  a  chat  just  as  we  were  shutting.  I  wouldn't  be  at  all 
surprised  if  it  was  to  broach  openly  what  he  has  often 
hinted  at  to  me.  Mike  Duggan  doesn't  waste  his  time  pay- 
ing visits  that  haven't  something  important  behind  them." 


26  Vocations 

Mrs.  Curtin  took  a  handkerchief  from  under  the  belt  of 
her  black  apron  and  dabbed  at  her  eyes. 

"  Come,  come,  woman,"  Tom  Curtin  said  sternly. 

"I'm  beyond  all  that,  Tom."  She  gave  a  dry  sob.  "You 
have  broke  the  heart  in  me  this  night.  I  had  it  set  on  them 
two  girls  going  into  the  convent.  'Twill  break  Kitty's  heart, 
too,  marrying  her  off  like  this  agin  her  will." 

"Who's  talking  of  marrying  her  off  agin  her  will?  I'm 
not  going  to  force  her  to  it.  It's  bad  enough  for  yourself 
and  the  nuns  to  be  trying  to  delude  her  into  the  convent, 
and  she  not  wanting  to  go.  She  can  marry  Joe  Duggan  or 
go  into  the  convent,  whichever  she  likes  best,  but  she  must 
have  her  free  choice." 

"  You  won't  settle  anything,  then  ? "  Johanna  said  more 
brightly,  putting  away  her  handkerchief. 

"  Certainly  not.    The  girl  must  choose  for  herself." 

Mrs.  Curtin  gazed  thoughtfully  at  the  tea-tins.  "  She's 
a  headstrong  girl,  mark  my  words  for  it,  Tom.  She's  dainty 
in  her  ways,  like  them  blood-horses  that  are  particular  about 
their  food.  If  it  was  a  gentleman,  now — Dr.  Thornton,  or 
the  like — I  wouldn't  be  saying  that  she  wouldn't  be  foolish 
enough " 

"  Pooh,  pooh,"  Curtin  said  angrily.  "  I  want  a  man  that'll 
keep  on  Curtin  and  Co." 

"  It's  Joe  Duggan  then,  or  no  one?  "  she  said  hopefully. 

"  There  isn't  another  man  I  know  I'd  trust  with  the  busi- 
ness," he  said. 

Johanna  smiled  at  the  worn  wedding-ring  on  her  finger. 
With  the  help  of  God  Tom  might  give  Kitty  the  last  push 
into  the  convent.  Tom  had  a  great  notion  of  freedom. 
How  well  she  knew  it  all  her  life :  to  give  you  the  choice  of 
two  things  both  of  which  you  disliked.  Kitty'd  be  sure  to 
see  the  beauty  of  the  convent  when  that  grasping  lout,  Joe 
Duggan,  came  after  her.  The  ways  of  God  were  wonderful. 
If  He  couldn't  lead  a  soul  to  grace  by  the  straight  road  He 
took  advantage  of  it  on  a  by-road. 

"  Fie,  fie.    Thomas  Curtin  and  Co.  open  for  the  sale  of 


Vocations  27 

drink  at  five  past  ten,"  a  harsh  voice  said  jocosely  from  the 
door. 

"  Come  in,  Mr.  Duggan.  Come  in.  It's  not  every  night 
we  expect  the  Chairman  of  the  town  Bench  to  visit  us,"  Tom 
Curtin  said,  with  a  welcoming  laugh.  "  The  door,  Johanna. 
But  if  the  peelers  have  us  up  before  the  court  itself,  you'll 
let  us  off  light,  Mr.  Duggan  ?  " 

Mrs.  Curtin  lifted  a  flap  of  the  counter  and  shook  hands 
with  the  heavy-jowled,  clean-shaven  man  whose  keen  grey 
eyes,  under  heavy  lids,  seemed  to  appraise  everything  in  the 
shop  in  one  quiet  glance. 

While  her  husband  was  welcoming  Duggan  she  shut  and 
barred  the  shop  door. 

"  We  mustn't  keep  Mr.  Duggan  on  his  feet,"  she  said, 
bustling  back  to  the  counter.  "  Come  this  way  into  the 
snug,  Mr.  Duggan,  and  don't  forget  we  have  mouths  on  us, 
Tom." 

Duggan  lumbered  behind  her  through  a  small  door  at  the 
end  of  the  counter,  near  the  front  window,  to  a  recess  par- 
titioned off  from  prying  eyes  in  front  of  the  counter.  He 
settled  his  cumbrous  body  in  a  low  arm-chair  beside  the 
small  mahogany  table.  Mrs.  Curtin  sat  in  a  high  chair,  and 
rested  her  elbows  on  the  table. 

"  It's  the  first  time  I've  really  rested  my  feet  this  day," 
she  said,  with  a  sigh  of  contentment. 

"  The  whole  world  knows  how  you  mind  the  business  and 
what  a  power  of  business  you  have  to  mind."  Duggan 
rubbed  a  thin  lock  of  white  hair  across  his  bald  forehead. 

"  Now  we  can  make  ourselves  comfortable,"  Tom  Curtin 
said  cheerfully,  coming  in  with  a  tray  laden  with  bottles,  a 
siphon,  a  jug  of  water,  glasses  and  a  box  of  cigars.  "Which 
will  it  be,  Mr.  Duggan?  Brandy  that's  as  old  as  ourselves, 
or  whiskey  that's  about  half  our  age?  And  there's  some 
port  for  the  woman  of  the  house  that'll  raise  the  cockles  of 
her  heart." 

"  Sure,  how  could  a  man  choose  between  the  angels  out 
of  heaven,"  Duggan  said,  with  a  sigh.  "  But  the  brandy 
might  be  kinder  to  a  man  of  my  years.  I'm  fifteen  years 


28  V o  cations 

nearer  to  my  grave  than  you  are,  Thomas  Curtin,  and  it's 
thinking  of  winding  up  my  affairs  I  must  be." 

"  Tut-tut,"  Curtin  said,  as  he  drew  the  cork  of  the  brandy 
bottle  with  reverent  care.  "  You're  a  young  man  yet." 

"  I'm  within  a  year  of  seventy." 

"And  what's  that  to  a  hale  and  hearty  man  with  a  good 
son  to  take  a  lot  of  the  burden  of  life  off  him?  " 

"  The  best  son  in  the  town  of  Drumbawn,  though  it's  my- 
self that  says  it,"  Duggan  said  proudly. 

"  You're  only  saying  what  the  whole  world  is  saying," 
Tom  Curtin  agreed  heartily,  as  he  poured  away  the  top  of 
the  spirit  into  a  spare  glass.  "  A  drop  of  this  will  make  you 
feel  younger  even  than  you  look,"  he  added,  as  he  helped 
Duggan  liberally. 

"  Stop,  stop.  No,  no  soda,  thank  you.  I  wouldn't  be 
insulting  the  good  liquor  by  showing  any  fear  of  it.  As  I 
was  saying,  I'm  drawing  near  to  my  end,  and  it's  time  I 
was  making  my  soul.  Your  health,  Mrs.  Curtin,  and  yours, 
too,  Mr.  Curtin,  and  the  young  ladies,  God  bless  them.  A 
long  life  and  handsome  husbands  to  them." 

Tom  Curtin  helped  his  wife  to  a  half -glass  of  port  and 
himself  to  a  glass  of  soda  water. 

"Thanks,  thanks,  and  for  the  girls,  too,"  he  said. 
"  Though  it's  the  divine  spouse  one  of  'em'll  be  having. 
She's  booked  for  the  convent." 

"Which  of  'em  might  that  be  now?"  Duggan  asked, 
smacking  his  lips. 

"  Winnie,  the  eldest  one." 

"  Ah,"  Duggan  said,  with  satisfaction,  and  wagged  his 
head  impressively  at  his  glass.  "And  it's  a  good  handsel 
she'll  be  taking  in  to  them,  no  doubt." 

"  We  must  deal  generously  with  God,"  Curtin  said,  pull- 
ing his  beard.  "  A  couple  of  thousand  now,  and  maybe  a 
couple  more  when  I'm  gone.  But  the  bulk  must  go  to  the 
girl  that  has  to  bear  the  brunt  of  the  world  and  who'll  have, 
I  hope,  children  herself  to  provide  for." 

"  That's  generosity  and  justice  both  in  the  one  breath," 
Duggan  said,  nodding  a  fervent  approval,  "  and  worthy  of 


Vocations  29 

the  high  name  you  have,  Mr.  Curtin,  in  town  and  country. 
It's  many  a  man'll  be  setting  his  cap  at  Miss  Kitty.  There's 
many  of  the  gentry  that'd  like  to  have  the  handling  of  her 
money,"  he  added  meditatively,  sipping  his  brandy  with 
appreciation. 

"  Every  penny  of  my  money  was  made  by  myself  and 
Johanna  there,  and  it  won't  go  to  any  waster  if  I  can  help 
it,"  Curtin  said  emphatically.  "  I  want  a  man  for  her  that 
can  look  after  her  business,  and,  maybe,  add  to  it." 

"  That's  sound  sense  if  ever  I  heard  it  spoken."  Duggan 
leant  back  in  his  chair  and  supported  his  hands  on  the  arms. 
"  You  give  me  courage  to  speak  up.  I  can  point  out  that 
very  man  to  you." 

"  I'll  hear  you,  Mr.  Duggan." 

"And  that  man  is  my  son,  Joe,"  said  Duggan  slowly, 
staring  at  the  table. 

Tom  Curtin  gazed  at  the  ceiling  and  said  nothing. 

"  First  and  foremost  I  may  tell  you  that  the  boy  has  a 
liking  for  her.  If  she  hadn't  a  penny  to  her  name,  he'd  be 
strongly  tempted  to  ask  her  to  marry  him  to-morrow.  It's 
lucky  for  him,  though,  with  the  big  schemes  he  has  in  his 
head,  that  his  heart  and  his  head  can  go  the  one  road.  For 
if  Miss  Kitty  is  the  purtiest  girl  in  the  town,  she's  the  one 
girl,  too,  that  can  help  Joe  to  what  he  has  in  view.  You 
have  a  fair  idea  of  my  standing,  Tom  Curtin,  but  you  can 
learn  it  all  any  day  you  like  to  come  up  to  the  bank  with 
me.  There's  the  business,  and  a  warm  wad  of  ready  money, 
and  the  land.  I'll  make  over  everything  to  Joe  the  day  he 
marries,  except  one  farm  at  Clogheen  that  I'll  live  on  my- 
self, but  he'll  have  that,  too,  when  I  go.  Now  that's  what 
he  is ;  and  he's  no  bad  prize  even  for  a  warm  girl  like  Miss 
Kitty.  But  it's  nothing  to  what  he  hopes  to  be.  You  know 
he  served  his  time  up  in  Arnott's  at  the  wholesaling.  But 
no  one  in  Drumbawn,  except  myself  and  himself,  knows 
that  he  spent  a  year  of  it  as  an  improver  in  a  big  shop  in 
Kensington,  London,  where  they  sell  every  known  thing 
under  the  one  roof.  It's  the  John  Barker  of  Drumbawn 
Joe  intends  to  be  one  day.  I  made  a  start  for  him  to-day 


30  Vocations 

by  buying  out  Kerley,  the  ironmonger,  next  door  to  us; 
and  Dooley,  the  chemist,  above  you  is  open  to  an  offer,  I 
know.  Joe  couldn't  buy  you  out,  nor  would  he  dream  of  it, 
but  you'd  come  in  on  your  own  terms.  You're  a  young  man 
yet  and  won't  want  to  retire.  Joe's  own  words  to  me  were 
'  Mr.  Curtin  must  give  me  his  name  if  he  gives  me  the  finest 
girl  in  Drumbawn!'  If  you  see  eye  to  eye  with  us,  the 
whole  business'd  be  called  Thomas  Curtin  and  Co." 

For  the  first  time  since  he  began  his  explanation  Duggan 
looked  at  Tom  Curtin  and  surprised  a  faint  smile  of  satis- 
faction in  the  studiously  set  face.  He  paused,  took  the 
cigar  Curtin  held  out  to  him.  and  put  it  on  the  table  beside 
him.  He  sipped  at  his  brandy,  said  it  was  famous  stuff,  and 
sweeter  to  the  smell  than  new-mown  hay.  He  looked  again 
at  Curtin,  whose  eye  was  fixed  in  a  questioning  stare  on  the 
brandy  bottle.  Tom  was  biting.  Better  give  him  time  to 
get  the  hook  well  into  his  gills.  Duggan  took  up  his  cigar, 
fingered  it  softly,  bit  off  the  end,  and  settled  down  to  a 
luxurious  smoke.  The  ticking  of  the  clock  above  the  whiskey 
counter  beat  like  the  hammer  of  fate  through  the  silent 
shop. 

Mrs.  Curtin  moved  uneasily  in  her  chair.  Twenty-two 
years'  experience  of  Tom  Curtin  told  her  that  not  only  had 
he  bitten,  but  that  he  had  swallowed  the  hook.  She  had  her 
own  ways  of  managing  him,  but  he  was  past  her  interfer- 
ence, now.  If  she  crossed  him  it  would  only  make  him  the 
more  stubborn  in  following  his  own  bent.  Them  Duggans 
were  clever  without  a  doubt,  but  somehow  or  other  she'd 
put  a  spoke  in  their  wheel  yet.  They  were  thinking  only  of 
themselves,  but  she  was  thinking  of  God;  and  she'd  have 
God  on  her  side.  As  long  as  she  had  breath  in  her  body, 
Thomas  Curtin  and  Co.'d  never  go  to  make  a  great  man  of 
Joe  Duggan.  To  think  of  him  spending  that  year  in  London 
and  she  never  to  know  of  it!  She  prided  herself  on  her 
knowledge  of  the  doings  of  Drumbawn,  and  this  was  a 
severe  blow.  But  it  also  impressed  her.  There  was  no 
craft  or  guile  them  Duggans  weren't  capable  of.  Tom,  with 
all  his  conceit  of  himself,  'd  be  putty  in  their  hands.  But 


Vocations  31 

with  the  help  of  God  she'd  be  able  for  them.  She  listened 
to  a  faint  grating  of  the  house  door  and  the  sound  of 
stealthy  footsteps  along  the  hall-way.  Twenty-five  to  eleven 
and  she  had  said  quarter-past  ten.  She'd  give  a  tongue 
thrashing  to  them  gallivanters  of  shop-boys  in  the  morning. 
Poor  fellows!  they  had  a  hard  day  of  it.  But  she'd  let 
them  know  that  nothing  escaped  her.  She  smiled  with 
pleasure,  her  confidence  in  herself  confirmed.  And  if  that 
limb  of  a  Peggy  didn't  tell  on  them  she'd  give  her  a  lam- 
basting with  her  tongue. 

"  The  bottle  is  near  you,  Tom.  Won't  you  help  Mr.  Dug- 
gan  to  another  little  drop  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  smile. 

"And  if  I  don't  give  in?"  Tom  Curtin  said,  with  a  deep 
frown  at  the  soda  siphon. 

"  That's  the  very  thing  I  said  to  Joe.  Where  would  you 
be,  Joe,  I  said,  if  Tom  Curtin  gives  you  the  go-by?  'I'd 
develop  the  wholesale  side  of  our  own  business  in  any  case,' 
he  said,  'with  the  twenty  thousand  you're  giving  me.  I 
might  either  spread  it  out  into  Kerleys,  or  build  on  to  the 
back  of  our  own  shop  for  the  extension  of  the  drapery  and 
keep  Kerleys  for  ironmongery.  With  the  prosperity  that's 
coming  on  the  country  there's  a  great  future  for  agricul- 
tural machinery.  It'd  be  a  lopsided  sort  of  business, 
though,  and  I'd  drop  entirely  the  idea  of  Dooley's.  With- 
out Mr.  Curtin,'  he  said,  '  I'd  be  like  a  pricked  bladder ! '  " 

"  How  much  do  you  want  with  her  ? "  Curtin  asked 
fiercely  of  the  brandy  bottle,  after  a  long  pause. 

Duggan  pulled  hard  at  his  cigar. 

"I'd  do  up  that  house  on  the  river-bank  for  them  that 
the  Resident  Magistrates  used  to  have  of  me.  In  view  of 
Joe  marrying,  I  made  up  my  mind  not  to  let  it  to  the  new 
man.  Miss  Kitty  was  brought  up  tender  and  must  have 
her  comfort  and  her  piano  and  maybe  a  pony  and  trap  to 
drive  about  in.  All  that'd  be  a  present  from  myself.  You 
know  what  I'm  giving  Joe  besides.  But  the  scheme  is  a 
big  one  and  to  give  it  a  fair  chance  it'll  want  a  power  of 
money.  Would  ten  thousand  be  too  high  a  figure?  " 


32  Vocations 

There  was  a  tentative  note  in  Duggan's  voice  and  he  was 
a  little  taken  aback  at  Curtin's  questioning  scowl. 

"  Ten  thousand  ?    Hum-hum :   pooh-hooh !  " 

"  It  isn't  as  if  it  was  coming  into  an  empty  pocket," 
Duggan  said  stubbornly. 

"  Nonsense,  man,  nonsense,"  Curtin  said,  with  a  sweep 
of  his  hand. 

"  What  would  you  rise  to,  then  ?  " 

"Ten  thousand.  A  mere  trifle."  Curtin  moistened  his 
dry  lips.  "I  may  not  be  in  politics,  Mr.  Duggan.  I'm  not 
a  J.P.  like  you,  or  Chairman  of  the  Town  Board.  But  I'm 
known  to  the  trade,  sir.  Thomas  Curtin  and  Co.  has  a 
reputation  with  the  wholesale  houses  in  Dublin  and  Belfast 
at  least  as  high  as  Michael  Duggan  and  Son.  Ten  thousand, 
pshaw!  The  day  my  daughter  marries  your  son,  if  she 
marries  him,  I'll  put  down  pound  for  pound  with  you. 
Have  another  drop  of  brandy,  Mr.  Duggan?" 

"  Twenty  thousand !  "  Duggan's  jaw  dropped  open  and 
displayed  his  straggling  teeth. 

"  There  isn't  a  headache  in  a  gallon  of  it,"  Curtin  said 
gaily,  "  and  to  show  what  I  feel  this  minute  I'll  break  the 
custom  of  a  lifetime  and  join  you  in  a  thimbleful." 

"  Stop,  stop,"  Duggan  interjected.  "  I'm  that  drunk  with 
pleasure  that  another  drop  of  that  brandy'd  put  me  off  my 
feet,  good  and  all  as  it  is.  I'm  glad  of  the  money  for  Joe's 
sake.  But,  honest  to  God,  I'm  gladder  to  find  a  man  that 
has  so  much  belief  in  my  own  son." 

"  That'll  be  her  fortune,"  said  Curtin  heartily.  "  But 
there's  as  much  more  where  that  comes  from,  and  if  Joe 
can  convince  me  about  the  soundness  of  his  plans  there's 
no  reason  why  it  shouldn't  all  go  into  the  business.  I'd  give 
Joe  his  head  but  I'd  look  after  my  own  side  of  the  business, 
at  least  for  a  few  years  to  come,  and  keep  some  kind  of 
general  control.  But  we  can  go  into  all  that  after.  And  in 
any  case  they'd  have  everything  when  the  wife  smuggles 
me  into  heaven  with  her.  Take  another  half  of  port, 
Johanna.  Here's  to  the  happy  couple." 

Mrs.  Curtin  helped  herself  to  a  good  half-glass  of  port 


Vocations  33 

and  smacked  her  lips.  "  How  like  men  ye  are,  to  be  sure," 
she  chided,  as  she  put  down  her  glass,  "  to  settle  the  poor 
girl  for  life  and  not  so  much  as  to  ask  her  leave." 

"Of  course  she  must  be  asked,"  Curtin  said  hastily. 
"Not  a  word  about  all  this,  Mike  Duggan,  except  to  Joe, 
till  the  little  girl  gives  her  consent." 

"  I  suppose  it's  all  right  ?  "  Duggan  scratched  his  head 
doubtfully.  "  Will  you  tell  her  yourself,  Tom  Curtin,  or 
must  I  go  and  see  her?  I'm  shy-like  with  young  females, 
and  Miss  Kitty  looks  so  very  stand-off  when  I  pass  her  by 
in  the  street.  It  would  be  easier  for  me  if  you'd  tell  her 
what  we  decided  on." 

"  Oh,  no,  no."  Tom  Curtin  gave  a  superior  smile. 
"We're  living  in  new-fangled  times,  Mike.  And  young  girls 
like  to  think  they're  having  their  own  way.  Joe  must  court 
her,  just  as  if  we  had  never  agreed  to  anything.  And  when 
they've  made  it  up  between  them,  then  we'll  give  them  our 
blessing." 

"Isn't  it  dangerous  to  leave  so  much  in  a  young  girl's 
hands  ?  "  Duggan  said,  with  a  worried  frown.  "  You  never 
know  what  maggot'd  get  into  her  head.  Couldn't  we  just 
tell  her  it's  all  settled  and  let  them  do  the  courting  after  ?  " 

"  No,  that  wouldn't  do  at  all,"  Curtin  said.  "  It's  a  lady 
you'll  be  getting  for  a  daughter-in-law,  Mike  Duggan,"  he 
added  pompously.  "  They  learn  ways  in  them  grand  con- 
vents that  are  a  bit  different  from  what  we  were  used  to. 
Besides,  I've  passed  my  word  that  she'd  have  a  free  choice. 
Ask  Joe  in  to  have  a  cup  of  tea,  Johanna,  and  throw  them 
together  now  and  again.  Beyond  a  priest,  once  in  a  way, 
it's  the  first  time  a  man'll  have  come  inside  their  drawing- 
room.  Kitty  is  sure  to  fall  head-over-heels  in  love  with 
Joe.  He's  a  bit  of  a  lady-killer,  with  all  his  grand  business 
ideas.  You'd  better  get  Winnie  out  of  the  way,  ma'am,  or 
she'll  be  losing  her  vocation  on  the  head  of  him,"  he  added 
jocosely. 

"  It's  a  queer  fad  to  leave  an  important  business  like  this 
hanging  on  the  whim  of  a  young  girl,"  Duggan  said  doubt- 
fully, levering  himself  out  of  his  chair. 


34  Vocations 

"  Oh,  Kitty  lias  her  head  screwed  on  all  right.  Too  long 
her  mother  has  kept  her  tied  up.  She'll  be  glad  enough  to 
jump  the  traces.  But  she's  a  sensible  girl  for  all  that  and 
knows  which  side  her  bread  is  buttered.  And  I'll  let  her 
know,  too,  what  I  think  of  Joe.  There's  no  fear  but  she'll 
make  the  right  choice.  Eh,  Johanna  ?  " 

"  God  is  sure  to  direct  her  to  the  best,"  Mrs.  Curtin  said 
as  she  shook  Duggan's  extended  hand. 


Chapter  j 

AS  a  child  Johanna  Curtin — then  Johanna  Ma- 
honey — was  pretty  and  vivacious,  and  a  fa- 
vourite pupil  of  the  nuns  who  taught  in  the 
elementary  school  attached  to  the  Drumbawn 
Mercy  Convent.  She  could  hardly  have  been  called  re- 
ligious in  any  of  the  senses  of  that  word  of  varied  mean- 
ing; but  she  did  everything  that  was  necessary  to  gain  and 
keep  the  favour  of  the  nuns.  Outside  school  hours  the 
Muldoons,  the  Duggans,  the  Rafters  and  the  Devines  tried, 
as  she  said,  "  to  crow  "  over  her.  Their  fathers  were  pros- 
perous shopkeepers :  her  father  was  poor.  If  Helena  Raf- 
ter got  a  new  dress  or  a  new  hat,  the  Devine  girls,  the 
Duggans  and  the  Muldoons  appeared  in  new  hats  or  new 
dresses  within  a  week.  When  Johanna  suggested  a  new  hat 
to  her  father,  Tim  Mahoney  growled  that  she  ought  to  be 
thankful  she  wasn't  in  rags  or  in  the  workhouse,  where  her 
extravagance  was  driving  him.  She  soon  came  to  know  that 
drink  was  driving  him  there. 

Her  mother  died  when  she  was  ten,  and  things  then  grew 
worse  at  home.  Sometimes  there  was  a  slatternly  servant, 
often  there  was  none.  Meals  were  uncertain  and  a  hot  meal 
an  event.  Davie  Joyce,  the  meek  shop  assistant,  who  had 
been  a  part  of  the  shop  as  long  as  she  could  remember,  left, 
and  was  succeeded  by  a  grumpy  elderly  man  who  stayed  a 
month.  For  a  long  time  there  was  no  assistant.  She  and 
the  servant,  when  there  was  one,  helped  in  the  shop  on  mar- 
ket and  fair  days. 

She  saw  her  father  in  all  the  stages  of  maudlin  intoxica- 
tion except  absolute  collapse.  Once  when  she  mustered  a 
frightened  courage  to  remonstrate,  he  became  furiously 
angry,  cuffed  her  out  of  the  shop  and  ordered  her  never  to 
set  foot  in  it  again.  Other  assistants  came  and  went.  They 
35 


36  Vocations 

remained  in  her  memory  as  nice  men  who  tried  to  keep  her 
father  from  drink,  or  horrid  men  who  drank  with  him ;  but 
nice  or  horrid  he  quarrelled  with  them  all,  and  they  invari- 
ably left  after  a  month  or  two. 

She  had  a  miserable  time,  but  there  were  compensations. 
In  her  hearing  Josie  Muldoon  might  snigger  and  ask  Helena 
Rafter  what  shopkeeper  in  Drumbawn  was  his  own  best 
customer ;  and  Helena  might  snigger  and  answer  as  often 
as  she  liked,  "  a  name  that  begins  with  an  M  and  ends  with 
a  Y."  For  wasn't  Mahoney's  shop,  on  the  outside  at  least^ 
far  finer  than  the  Muldoons  and  the  Rafters?  Wasn't  it 
double-fronted  with  twenty-two  shutters  while  theirs  were 
single-fronted  with  only  thirteen  shutters  between  them? 
And  if  they  went  to  the  sea  in  the  summer  and  had  picnics 
and  excursions,  she  beat  them  hands  down  at  their  lessons 
when  they  came  back  to  school.  They  might  make  game  of 
her  dress  in  the  street,  but  once  they  were  inside  the  con- 
vent school  they  had  to  sing  very  small.  They  might  look 
down  on  her  outside,  but  there  they  had  to  look  up  to  her. 
She  got  her  green  and  red  ribbons  before  them;  and  the 
coveted  blue  ribbon  of  a  child  of  Mary  a  full  year  before 
Josie  Muldoon,  who  was  a  year  older.  The  convent  was 
heaven.  It  was  the  only  place  in  the  whole  world  where 
one's  merits  were  recognized.  Nothing  she  did  or  didn't 
do  pleased  the  Rafter  girls  or  the  Muldoons  or  the  other 
snobs ;  but  by  industry  and  a  guard  over  her  tongue  and 
temper,  by  being  respectful  and  obedient,  by  piety,  she  won 
and  kept  the  regard  of  the  nuns.  Josie  Muldoon  called  her 
a  voteen  and  a  hypocrite,  but  that  was  only  jealousy.  And 
if  she  didn't  like  praying  as  much  as  the  nuns  thought  she 
did,  what  harm  did  it  do  to  anyone?  She  never  did  any- 
thing really  wrong  whether  the  nuns  were  looking  or  not, 
except  to  hate  Helena  Rafter  and  Josie  Muldoon,  artd  a 
saint  out  of  heaven  couldn't  stand  them.  By  dint  of  hard 
praying  she  always  forgave  them  when  she  went  to  confes- 
sion ;  but  somehow  or  other  a  new  feeling  of  hate  sprang 
up  again  at  the  very  first  sight  she  caught  of  either  of  them. 

At  seventeen  she  had  been  three  years  in  the  sixth  class 


V  ocations  37 

and  two  years  head  of  the  school.  Josie  Muldoon  was  then 
a  year  married  to  Mike  Duggan,  the  draper,  a  man  old 
enough  to  be  her  father,  and  had  just  had  a  son.  Helena 
Rafter  was  at  a  boarding  school  in  Dublin.  Tessy  Devine 
was  a  novice,  but,  thank  God,  she  hadn't  dowry  enough  to 
be  taken  at  Drumbawn,  and  had  to  enter  a  cheaper  convent 
at  Lisakelly.  Johanna  should  have  left  the  school  a  year 
before,  but  she  hung  on,  hating  to  leave  the  scene  of  her 
many  triumphs.  The  thought  of  spending  the  whole  day 
and  every  day  at  home  filled  her  with  horror.  She  had  no 
particular  desire  to  be  a  nun.  The  acts  of  piety  and 
obedience  which  had  always  brought  her  rewards  every 
nun  had  to  perform  as  a  matter  of  course.  Yet  if  she  could 
only  be  a  nun  in  Drumbawn,  what  a  triumph  it  would  be 
over  the  Devines — with  Tessy  having  to  go  to  Lisakelly! 
She  could  even  look  down  on  Josie  Duggan. 

The  nuns  were  sympathetic,  but  prudent.  The  manner 
necessary  for  Drumbawn  convent  could  only  be  acquired  at 
a  high-class  boarding  school;  and  a  vow  of  poverty  was 
possible  only  when  backed  by  a  comfortable  balance  at  the 
bank.  Alas,  Tim  Mahoney  was  unable  to  pay  his  debts. 
He  had  neither  money  nor  credit.  And  not  even  if  he  were 
smothered  in  piles  of  gold  would  he  "  waste  a  penny  of  it 
on  them  bitches,"  he  declared  angrily,  when  Johanna  tim- 
idly opened  the  question.  Johanna  knew  nuns  who  had  no 
manner  and  nuns  who  had  had  no  money,  and  still  hoped. 
But  one  of  the  Superiors  explained  kindly  but  firmly,  that 
a  lack  of  manner  was  sometimes  compensated  for  by  an 
abundance  of  worldly  goods  which  the  convent  could  trans- 
mute into  the  greater  glory  of  God;  and  money  could,  less 
often,  be  dispensed  with  for  important  family  connections 
and  high  accomplishments.  But  the  lack  of  both  money  and 
manner  was  an  almost  certain  sign  of  the  absence  of  a 
vocation  to  such  a  convent  as  Drumbawn.  To  make  mat- 
ters worse,  there  was  the  notorious  Tim  Mahoney  to  be 
lived  down.  This  could  be  done,  of  course,  through  the 
grace  of  God,  but  not  as  Johanna  was  situated.  God,  how- 
ever, was  wonderfully  merciful,  and  far-sighted,  and  had 


38  Vocations 

provided  for  such  difficulties  as  Johanna's  in  the  Little 
Sisters  of  the  Poor  and  foreign  missions.  There  vocations 
were  tempered  by  the  difficulty  of  getting  postulants. 

For  a  whole  week  Johanna  stormed  heaven  by  prayer  for 
a  vocation  to  one  of  these  more  lowly  orders,  but  her  heart 
remained  unmoved.  They  were  worse  even  than  Lisakelly. 
After  triumphing  for  ten  years  over  Josie  Muldoon,  Helena 
Rafter,  Tessy  Devine  and  all  them  frights  of  big  girls  she 
should  simply  disappear.  The  mere  thought  of  being  hid- 
den away  in  London  or  in  some  savage  land  while  the  other 
girls  were  shining  in  the  full  glare  of  Drumbawn  publicity 
made  her  consider  the  thought  of  home.  What  if  she  could 
turn  her  father  from  the  drink?  With  tears  in  her  eyes 
she  told  Reverend  Mother  that  she  felt  a  call  to  work  a 
mission  on  her  father.  And  she  could  always  be  near  at 
hand  in  case  the  effective  signs  of  a  vocation  to  Drumbawn 
Mercy  Convent,  with  the  help  of  God,  materialized.  The 
nuns  were  enthusiastic  in  their  approval  and  promised  their 
help  in  unremitting  prayer. 

Within  a  week  she  had  got  rid  of  the  incompetent  servant 
of  the  moment,  who  pilfered  drink,  and  had  secured  the 
services  of  a  decent  widow  who  was  glad  to  work  for  her 
food  and  a  few  shillings  now  and  again  for  clothes. 
Johanna  promised  both  with  an  assumed  cheerfulness,  but 
with  secret  misgivings.  Her  father  never  noticed  the 
change  of  servants  and  swore  at  her  when  she  asked  money 
for  food;  but,  by  wheedling  Durkan,,  the  latest  shop-assist- 
ant, she  managed  to  provide  regular,  if  meagre,  meals. 

When  she  had  established  order  in  the  house,  one  morn- 
ing, before  anyone  else  was  down,  she  stole  into  the  shop 
with  trembling  limbs,  bringing  with  her  a  Windsor  chair 
from  the  kitchen.  She  seated  herself  in  front  of  the  bat- 
tered desk  in  the  curtained  recess  beside  the  snuggery  from 
which  there  was  a  view  of  the  whole  shop.  Narrow  beams 
of  light  struggling  through  the  shuttered  windows  gave  a 
ghostly  look  to  barrels  and  tins.  Her  courage  was  oozing 
away  at  her  finger-tips,  but  she  tightened  her  lips  and  kept 
back  her  tears  with  an  effort.  She  took  out  her  rosary 


Vocations  39 

beads  and  prayed  fervently.  The  regular  ticking  of  the 
shop  clock  first  excited  and  then  soothed  her  nerves.  But 
she  jumped  in  her  seat  when  the  clock  gave  a  wheezy  groan 
and  began  to  strike  seven.  Durkan  ought  to  be  down  to 
open  the  shop.  She'd  see  to  that.  At  a  quarter-past  seven 
she  heard  shuffling  steps  in  the  hall,  much  fumbling  and 
the  clinking  of  glass  at  the  handle  of  the  door  leading  into 
the  shop.  She  turned  in  her  seat  and  watched  the  door, 
fascinated.  At  last  it  was  kicked  open.  Her  father,  un- 
shaven, in  shirt  and  trousers,  came  in  laden  with  three  or 
four  empty  soda-water  bottles  and  an  empty  whiskey  bot- 
tle. So  that  was  why  he  was  never  quite  sober,  even  in  the 
mornings.  She  clutched  her  beads,  prayed  hard  under  her 
breath,  and  watched  him  kick  the  door  to.  He  did  not  look 
at  the  desk,  but  made  his  way,  coughing  and  spluttering, 
towards  the  whiskey  counter.  He  got  rid  of  the  empty 
bottles  under  the  counter,  muttered  in  a  hoarse  whisper, 
that  carried  through  the  silent  shop,  "  I'm  as  dry  as  a  lime- 
kiln," stared  at  the  row  of  barrels,  sighed  and  murmured, 
"  Just  one — three  fingers — not  a  drop  more.  Not  another 
drop  to-day.  Not  till  the  night,  anyway."  He  opened  a 
bottle  of  soda  water,  held  a  long  tumbler  under  the  tap  of 
a  whiskey  barrel,  filled  it  about  a  third,  held  the  glass  up  to 
the  feeble  light,  again  put  it  under  the  tap  and  filled  it  half- 
way to  the  top.  He  added  a  dash  of  soda  water  and  drank 
the  mixture  off  in  a  series  of  gulps.  He  smacked  his  lips 
and  said,  "  That's  better."  He  recorked  the  soda-water  bot- 
tle, but,  on  second  thoughts,  withdrew  the  cork  and  poured 
the  liquid  into  the  empty  glass,  added  a  long  draught  of 
whiskey  and,  leaning  back  against  the  counter,  drank  it 
leisurely.  He  drained  the  last  sip  from  the  glass,  sighed 
and  said,  "  That's  better.  Now  I'm  feeling  equal  to  the 
day."  He  put  away  the  empty  bottle  and  glass  carefully  and 
shuffled  back  towards  the  door  giving  on  the  hall.  Half- 
way he  stood  still  and  peered  at  the  desk.  His  mottled  face 
went  pale  in  streaks.  He  stumbled  back  a  pace  or  two, 
clutched  his  head  with  his  hands  and  cried  aloud  in  a  fright- 
ened voice,  "  My  God,  it's  the  jim-jams." 


40  Vocations 

"  It's  not.  It's  me,  father,"  Johanna  said,  rising,  and 
clasping  the  back  of  the  chair. 

He  stepped  back  another  pace  and  stared  at  her  wildly. 

"  It's  me,  Johanna,"  she  repeated. 

"  What?  What?  What  the  devil  are  you  doing  here?  " 
he  muttered  feebly. 

"  I'm  going  to  work  in  the  shop  from  this  out,"  she  said, 
gaining  courage  from  his  seeming  weakness. 

"  The  devil  you  are,"  he  muttered  vaguely.  "  The  devil 
you  are,"  he  shouted  angrily,  after  a  short  pause,  a  hot  flush 
mounting  to  his  forehead.  He  sprang  towards  her  with  his 
fist  raised. 

"  Be  off  to  hell  out  of  that  this  minute/'  he  said,  waving 
his  fist. 

She  trembled  all  over,  but  the  rosary  beads,  which  hurt 
her  fingers  as  she  clasped  the  chair,  gave  her  courage. 

"  I  will  not,"  she  said,  moistening  her  dry  lips  with  her 
tongue. 

"  Take  that,  you  bloody  bitch,"  he  said  thickly,  jamming 
his  fist  in  her  eye.  She  stumbled  backwards,  but  the  chair 
helped  her  to  keep  on  her  feet. 

"  Are  you  going?  "  he  asked  fiercely,  pointing  to  the  door. 

"  I  am  not,"  she  answered,  with  blazing  eyes. 

He  rushed  at  her  again  unsteadily,  but  she  lifted  the  chair 
by  the  back  and  the  legs  caught  him  in  the  shoulders.  She 
gave  a  slight  push.  He  stumbled  against  the  counter  and 
slid  on  to  the  floor,  where  he  lay  flat  on  his  back. 

For  a  few  seconds  she  was  afraid  that  she  had  hurt  him, 
perhaps  killed  him.  The  chair  fell  from  her  hands,  and  she 
stared  at  him,  wild-eyed. 

He  moved,  clawed  the  floor  with  his  hands  and  levered 
himself  into  a  sitting  posture.  He  burst  into  tears  and 
whimpered  in  a  maudlin  voice : 

"  You  devil,  you.  You  devil  out  of  hell.  I'll  never  do  a 
day's  good  again.  You've  broken  every  bone  in  my  body." 

"  The  whiskey  is  beginning  to  tell  on  you.  It's  drunk  you 
are.  Get  up  out  of  that  and  up  to  your  bed  with  you,"  she 
said,  with  a  show  of  more  courage  than  she  felt. 


Vocations  41 

A  look  of  fear  overspread  his  face,  and  he  muttered  in  a 
terrified  tone : 

"  There's  snakes  climbing  all  over  your  face.  They'll  ate 
you  alive.  There  they  are  now  climbing  along  the  air  at 
me.  Give  me  a  drink.  Just  one  drink  for  the  love  of  God 
and  His  blessed  saints.  Save  me,  save  me,"  he  shouted, 
struggling  to  his  feet. 

She  did  her  best  to  hold  him  down,  but  he  had  succeeded 
in  getting  his  hands  tightly  about  her  neck,  when  Durkan, 
hurried  by  the  shouts,  rushed  into  the  shop  and  released 
her. 

"What's  on  him  at  all?"  she  asked  helplessly,  as  her 
father  again  began  to  weep. 

"  Keep  them  off  me.  Keep  them  off  me.  Don't  you  see 
them  rushing  at  me  like  a  cloud  of  gulls?"  Mahoney  shouted 
wildly,  beating  back  the  air  with  both  hands. 

"  It's  only  the  D.T.'s.  He  had  a  touch  of  'em  once  be- 
fore," Durkan  said  lightly. 

The  fortnight  her  father  had  to  stay  in  bed  gave  her  an 
assured  position  in  the  shop.  Durkan  tried  to  make  fun  of 
her,  and  failing  in  that,  tried  to  make  love.  The  conscious- 
ness of  a  disfiguring  black  eye  gave  strength  to  her  open 
hand.  She  helped  him  to  sense  and  prevented  the  loss  of 
overmuch  of  the  blood  that  streamed  from  his  nose  by 
slipping  the  big  shop-door  key  down  his  back. 

On  her  father's  return  to  the  shop  he  accepted  her  as  the 
inhabitants  of  a  defeated  country  accept  an  enemy  army  in 
occupation.  She  opened  the  shop  every  morning,  shut  it  at 
night,  and  kept  the  keys,  but  she  had  at  times  to  relax  her 
vigilance  with  inevitable  betrayal.  Durkan  was  cowed,  but 
unfaithful.  He  drank  himself  and  helped  her  father  to 
drink  the  moment  her  back  was  turned.  She  could  have  got 
rid  of  him,  but  she  was  afraid  to  face  a  possibly  worse  man. 

For  five  years  her  life  was  a  constant  struggle.  There 
were  rows  and  defeats  and  set-backs.  Each  new  day  con- 
cealed a  disappointment  or  some  lurking  terror.  But  each 
year  saw  an  advance.  Trade  recovered  and  the  fear  of 
bankruptcy  disappeared.  The  mountain  of  debt  gradually 


42  Vocations 

grew  less  and  less.  Travellers  trusted  her;  customers  liked 
her.  Business  men  would  have  laughed  at  her  books,  at  her 
elaborate  system  of  checks  and  safeguards,  but  they  worked. 
She  took  no  hours  off  and  no  holidays.  Most  of  her  meals 
were  taken  in  the  snuggery,  often  with  both  eyes  on  the 
shop.  Her  only  relaxations  were  her  rosary  beads  three 
times  a  day,  Mass  on  Sunday  mornings,  and  a  visit  to  the 
convent  on  Sunday  afternoons.  To  these  she  attributed  all 
her  success.  Some  day  she  would  pay  God  back  for  all  He 
was  doing  for  her,  by  entering  the  convent. 

Meanwhile,  she  had  her  small  triumphs.  Mahoney's  be- 
came known  as  Johanna  Mahoney's.  A  good-for-nothing 
brother  of  Josie  Muldoon  asked  her  to  marry  him ;  and  the 
thrill  of  refusing  him  was  the  greatest  pleasure  she  had  ex- 
perienced since  she  became  a  child  of  Mary.  When  she 
was  able  at  last  to  buy  decent  clothes,  she  decided  to  give  up 
going  to  early  Mass  on  Sundays  and  hiding  herself  away  in 
a  side  aisle.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  entered  Dug- 
gan's  shop  next  door  and  ordered  the  best  of  everything. 
It  somewhat  marred  her  joy  that  Josie  wasn't  in  the  shop, 
but  she  consoled  herself  by  the  thought  that  Josie  was  sure 
to  hear  of  her  purchases.  But,  in  any  case,  she'd  see  the 
result  at  the  last  Mass  on  Sunday.  Hat,  boots,  gloves, 
umbrella,  were  worthy  of  the  dress  and  dolman;  and  she'd 
say  that  much  for  Duggan's,  much  as  she  disliked  Josie, 
the  dress  and  dolman  were  worthy  of  the  great  reputation 
Mike  Duggan  had  for  sound  stuff. 

Five  of  the  old  sixth  class  she  counted  out  of  the  cor- 
ners of  her  demurely  cast-down  eyes  as  she  walked  up  by 
the  centre  of  the  nave  to  one  of  the  front  seats  of  the 
parish  church,  two  minutes  after  the  clock  had  ceased  strik- 
ing twelve  on  Sunday  morning.  Surprise,  envy,  blank 
amazement — she  noted  all  their  expressions  with  a  swelling 
heart. 

For  the  first  time  for  several  years  she  was  unable  to  im- 
prove the  minds  of  Durkan  and  her  father  at  the  Sunday 
dinner  by  a  recapitulation  of  the  sermon.  Had  there  been 
a  sermon  at  all  ?  She  couldn't  remember.  Her  father  fumed 


V  ocations  43 

at  her  extravagance.  She  grudged  him  a  glass,  and  there 
she  was  wearing  a  decent  man's  drink  for  a  twelvemonth 
on  her  back!  Durkan  was  so  much  impressed  that  in  the 
afternoon  he  mustered  up  courage  to  propose  marriage. 
She  explained  to  him  the  method  by  which  she  could  now  de- 
tect the  surreptitious  consumption,  from  stock,  of  even  one 
glass  of  whiskey.  More  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,  he  gave 
notice.  Outwardly  calm,  but  with  a  sinking  heart,  she  ac- 
cepted it,  but  omitted  for  the  first  time  in  five  years  her 
Sunday  visit  to  the  convent.  Happily  for  her  comfort,  a 
whiskey  traveller,  early  on  Monday  morning,  recommended 
her  a  new  man;  and  on  Wednesday  Durkan  had  gone  and 
Thomas  Curtin  had  taken  his  place. 

From  the  first  she  was  a  little  afraid  of  him.  He  was 
handsome,  but  a  little  stern.  He  had  a  grand  accent  when 
he  liked  to  put  it  on.  He  didn't  drink,  and  he  knew  his 
business.  For  the  second  time  she  missed  her  visit  to  the 
convent  on  the  following  Sunday.  She  and  Curtin  went 
over  the  books  together  instead,  and  he  explained  to  her  the 
defects  in  her  methods  of  book-keeping  and  stocktaking. 
Next  day  he  opened  the  shop  and  shut  it,  and  insisted  that 
she  should  go  for  a  walk  in  the  slack  hour.  She  gave  him  the 
key  of  the  desk.  He  was  a  most  knowledgeable  man  and  un- 
derstood about  her  father  without  being  told.  The  next  Sun- 
day she  never  even  thought  of  the  convent  and  spent  the 
afternoon  boating  with  Curtin  on  the  river.  They  talked  of 
the  business,  and  he  told  her  that  he  had  a  couple  of  hundred 
pounds  laid  by. 

Often,  when  she  was  supposed  to  be  making  up  the  books, 
she  found  herself  watching  and  admiring  his  manner  with 
the  customers.  She  sometimes  thought  uneasily  of  her 
vocation,  but  never  on  Sunday  afternoons,  which  were  now 
given  up  to  improving  conversation  with  Mr.  Curtin.  Even 
on  busy  weekdays  she  consulted  him  in  her  simplest  diffi- 
culties. By  his  advice  she  put  her  father  on  a  strict  ration 
of  two  glasses  of  whiskey  a  day;  and  when  the  old  man 
tried  to  increase  it  by  stealing  a  bottle  of  whiskey  from  the 
shop,  Curtin  took  it  from  him  firmly,  but  respectfully,  in  the 


44  Vocations 

hall.  Tim  Mahoney  foamed  with  anger.  He  began  by 
calling  his  daughter  and  Curtin  unmentionable  names,  but 
ended  by  offering  to  make  over  the  shop  to  them  if  they'd 
marry  and  make  him  an  allowance. 

"Would  that  suit  you,  Miss  Mahoney?"  Curtin  asked,  in 
his  most  dignified  accent. 

"It  would,  Mr.  Curtin,"  she  replied  timidly. 

Three  days  afterwards  they  were  married  in  the  early 
morning,  with  no  witnesses  except  the  clerk  of  the  church 
and  Johanna's  servant,  opened  the  shop  an  hour  later  and 
worked  as  usual.  Johanna  would  have  liked  to  make  a 
splash,  but  she  felt  that  the  opportunity  had  not  yet  come. 
A  shop-boy,  in  the  eyes  of  Drumbawn,  was  no  great  things 
of  a  match.  But  one  day  she'd  show  to  the  whole  world  that 
she  hadn't  made  a  mistake. 

Then  began  a  year  of  happiness.  She  saw  the  last  debt 
paid  without  touching  Tom's  money.  His  praise  that  it  was 
all  her  own  doing,  that  another  woman  in  Drumbawn,  or  in 
all  Ireland  either,  couldn't  hold  a  candle  to  her,  was  the 
sweetest  music  she  had  ever  listened  to.  He  had  his  faults 
— who  hadn't?  He  had  a  liking  for  his  own  way;  and 
maybe,  at  times,  was  firmer  than  he  might  have  been,  but 
having  domineered  for  five  years  over  men  she  despised,  she 
loved  him  all  the  more  for  his  masterfulness.  The  business 
advanced  by  leaps  and  bounds ;  and  when  she  was  forced  to 
remain  out  of  the  shop  in  expectation  of  her  child,  an  as- 
sistant was  engaged. 

She  suffered  agonies  in  childbirth.  In  moments  of  relief 
she  felt  that  God  was  angry  with  her.  Perhaps  she  was  too 
happy  for  this  world?  And  was  she  unfaithful  to  God  in 
not  having  become  a  nun?  If  He'd  forgive  her  now,  she'd 
make  it  up  to  Him.  If  she  had  a  son  she'd  make  a  priest 
of  him.  And  if  it  was  a  daughter,  she'd  make  a  nun  of 
her.  If  He'd  only  spare  her  and  the  child,  all  the  children 
she'd  ever  have'd  be  given  to  God. 

When  Winnie  was  born  both  the  agony  and  the  promise 
were  forgotten.  God  smiled  on  her  in  every  way.  The 
child  was  the  prettiest  child  that  ever  drew  breath.  The 


Vocations  45 

business  was  so  flourishing  that  a  second  assistant  had  to  be 
engaged.  There  was  no  cloud  in  her  life  but  her  father, 
who  still  occasionally  gave  trouble.  He  was  particularly 
troublesome  just  as  she  was  expecting  the  birth  of  her  sec- 
ond child.  In  a  moment  of  anger  she  prayed  that  God 
would  relieve  her  of  him  by  taking  him  to  Himself ;  but  was 
very  much  upset  when  God  appeared  to  take  her  at  her 
word.  She  went  straight  from  his  peaceful  death-bed  to 
her  labour  in  an  agony  of  fear.  If  God  would  only  forgive 
her  she'd  bring  both  the  children  up  in  the  ways  of  God  from 
the  very  moment  the  second  one'd  see  the  light.  She  sent 
for  Tom  and  clutched  his  hands,  her  eyes  wild  with  terror, 
sweat  oozing  from  her  face  and  down  her  dank  hair.  She 
begged  him  to  vow  Winnie  and  the  coming  child  to  God. 
He  soothed  her  and  told  her  there  was  no  fear  of  her.  The 
doctor  had  told  him  out  on  the  stairs  that  she  was  doing 
beautifully. 

"You'll  vow  them  to  God,  Tom?"  she  repeated  fiercely. 

"I'd  do  anything  in  life  for  you,  Johanna,  but  I  don't 
think  it's  fair  like  to  do  that,"  he  said,  with  a  stare  at  the 
wall  paper.  For  the  moment  he  was  not  thinking  of  her, 
but  of  the  son  who  was  to  inherit  the  big  business  he  and 
Johanna  were  about  to  build  up. 

"God  might  take  me  if  you  don't,"  she  shrieked,  again  in 
the  lock  of  pain. 

He  was  deeply  moved  and  hesitated.  God  didn't  do  things 
that  way.  But  still,  one  never  knew.  It  was  horrible  to  see 
her  in  such  pain.  Still,  women  were  like  that,  and  the 
doctor  had  sworn  that  she  was  doing  fine. 

"Sorra  bit  of  Him,"  he  said  soothingly;  "you'll  be  as 
right  as  a  trivet  in  a  whileen." 

She  gave  him  a  look  that  frightened  him,  a  blend  of  pain 
and  hatred.  In  so  far  as  she  could  think  of  anything  at  that 
moment  except  her  own  suffering,  she  hated  him. 

"You  be  off  now."  The  doctor  came  to  the  bedside,  and 
pushed  him  aside. 

"Is  there  any  fear  of  her?"  Curtin  asked  doubtfully.  He 
had  no  intention  of  giving  in  to  her  whim.  A  promise  was 


46  Vocations 

a  promise,  but  there  might  be  some  way,  if  he  could  only 
collect  his  scattered  wits,  of  easing  her  mind. 

"None  whatever.  Be  off.  You're  disturing  her,  stand- 
ing there." 

Johanna's  hatred  was  transferred  instantaneously  to  the 
doctor.  Tom'd  given  in — she  saw  it  in  his  eyes — if  the 
doctor  hadn't  driven  him  from  the  room.  Them  doctors  had 
«io  religion.  But  God  saw  into  the  heart  and  didn't  need  the 
spoken  word.  He'd  take  Tom's  unspoken  intention  for  the 
deed  and  she'd  be  all  right. 

Her  confinement  was  a  difficult  one.  Even  the  doctor  ad- 
mitted it  when  she  was  convalescent.  "There  was  a  moment 
when  I  was  sure  the  child  was  gone,  and  when  you  ran  a 
poor  chance  yourself.  But  I  did  the  trick,"  he  said  com- 
placently. 

She  pressed  Kitty  to  her  breast  and  smiled  mysteriously. 
Doctors  thought  a  great  deal  of  themselves,  but  what  fools 
they  were !  'Twas  God  did  it  all.  And  He  did  it  for  her 
because  of  her  promise.  And  she'd  never  forget  it  for  Him. 
Now  that  the  danger  was  past  Tom  was  forgetting  that  he 
was  on  the  verge  of  promising,  too — had  as  good  as  done 
it.  He  was  that  disappointed  at  not  having  a  son  that  she 
wouldn't  worry  him  now;  but  with  God's  help  she'd  work 
him  to  do  the  will  of  God  some  day  or  other.  He'd  be  easily 
led  if  only  one  day  she'd  give  him  a  son.  The  doctor  said 
she  could  never  have  a  child  again.  But  then  doctors  didn't 
know  everything,  and  knew  nothing  at  all  of  the  ways  of 
God. 

Johanna  dismissed  the  nurse  she  had  for  Winnie  and  got 
a  real  holy  girl  that  the  nuns  recommended.  When  her 
month  was  up  she  again  began  her  Sunday  afternoon  visits 
to  the  convent,  always  taking  the  children  with  her.  She 
confided  her  plans  to  Reverend  Mother,  who  was  only  mod- 
erately encouraging.  No  doubt  God  would  help  her  faith, 
but  one  could  never  be  sure  of  those  things.  One  might 
lead  a  horse  to  water,  but  it  was  the  horse  who  had  to 
drink.  Still,  there  was  a  great  deal  in  the  leading,  and  if 
it  was  done  continuously  the  horse  was  pretty  sure  to  drink 


V  ocations  47 

some  time.  But  Sister  Eulalie,  who  had  been  Johanna's 
special  friend  among  the  novices  as  a  girl,  was  enthusiastic. 
She  saw  the  hand  of  God  in  everything,  in  Johanna's  mar- 
vellous recovery,  in  the  success  of  the  shop,  with  its  promise 
of  fitting  dowries  for  the  girls.  Johanna  should  have  been 
a  nun  herself,  but  the  girls  would  more  than  make  up  for  her 
lapse  into  marriage.  It  was  hardly  even  a  lapse  if  God  so 
clearly  intended  to  use  it  for  His  purpose.  Sister  Eulalie 
saw  vocations  in  the  children's  eyes  already.  Little  Kitty 
never  cried  when  she  fondled  her.  And  Winnie  played  with 
a  veil  and  guimpe  as  if  she  loved  them.  And  they  were 
both  as  good  as  gold  when  she  took  them  into  the  chapel. 
The  great  thing  was  to  keep  them  apart  from  worldly  chil- 
dren and  to  surround  them  with  religious  emblems. 

When  Kitty  was  three  and  Winnie  four  and  a  half,  Sister 
Eulalie  was  in  charge  of  the  infant  school.  It  wasn't  as 
select  as  it  might  be,  she  explained  to  Johanna ;  but,  unless 
a  governess  was  possible,  something  of  the  kind  might  suit 
the  children  for  a  start.  A  governess,  of  course,  was  the 
thing  for  children  marked  out  for  such  a  high  destiny,  but 
if  that  wasn't  feasible,  she'd  do  her  best  to  keep  them  select. 
Johanna  was  very  much  taken  with  the  idea  of  a  governess. 
The  shop  would  run  to  it ;  and  it  would  be  such  a  slap  in  the 
face  to  the  Rafters  and  the  Duggans  and  the  Muldoons  and 
the  rest  of  them.  The  children  already  had  the  best  clothes 
of  any  children  in  the  town,  and  a  pram,,  the  same  as  was 
made  for  the  queen's  own  granddaughter,  the  traveller  said ; 
and  a  nurse  that  was  a  real  nurse ;  anyway,  she  had  nothing 
else  to  do  except  to  mind  the  children,  and  wasn't  just  the 
hired  girl  taking  a  turn  at  driving  the  pram,  which  was  all 
Josie  Duggan  ever  had  in  spite  of  all  her  attempts  at 
grandeur.  Still,  the  stuck-up  pieces  who  once  looked  down 
on  her  had  clothes  and  prams  for  their  children,  and  nurses, 
even  if  they  were  only  of  a  sort.  But  a  governess !  Except 
for  Lawyer  Finnegan,  and  the  Resident  Magistrate,  and  a 
few  of  the  like,  the  thing  was  unknown  in  the  town  of 
Drumbrawn.  As  for  a  shopkeeper  having  one,  it  never  hap- 
pened within  the  memory  of  man.  Thomas  Curtin  and  Co. 


4S  Vocations 

was  already  taking  its  place  in  the  town,  but  a  governess'd 
put  to  the  keystone  to  the  arch. 

Tom  liked  the  idea,  too,  when  she  proposed  it  to  him.  He 
was  no  longer  known  in  Drumbawn  as  "that  shop-boy,  Cur- 
tin,  that  Johanna  Mahoney  married,"  but  as  "Mr.  Curtin." 
He  wore  his  grand  accent  more  often  than  when  Johanna 
first  knew  him,  and  cultivated  a  manner  in  harmony  with 
it  and  his  neatly  trimmed  beard.  "They  looked  down  on  us 
once,"  he  often  said  pompously,  "but  one  day  they'll  be 
craning  their  necks  to  look  up  at  us,  and  it  won't  do  them 
any  good  for  we'll  keep  ourselves  to  ourselves.  Except  Mike 
Duggan  there  isn't  one  of  'em  I'd  be  bothered  bidding  the 
time  of  day  to."  "Him!  with  that  streel  of  a  wife,"  Jo- 
hanna would  say  contemptuously.  And  Tom  would  say  with 
a  smile  that  only  half  escaped  through  his  beard,  "Oh,  the 
wife.  Well,  she's  no  great  things."  They  talked  over  the 
governess  often  and  earnestly.  They  even  papered  a  bed- 
room for  her.  But  when  Sister  Eulalie  had  at  last  heard  of 
one  who  had,  as  it  were,  stepped  straight  out  of  heaven, 
she  was  so  suitable,  Johanna  showed  signs  of  doubt,  and 
Tom  hummed  and  hawed.  "To  tell  you  God's  truth,  Jo- 
hanna," he  said,  dropping  his  dignity,  "I'd  never  have  a 
minute's  ease  with  a  woman  talking  French  and  the  like 
hanging  round  the  house.  Sister  Eulalie  must  teach  the 
children  anything  in  the  way  of  trimmings  that's  within  her 
reach,  and  the  minute  they're  fit  for  it  we  can  send  'em  to 
the  best  boarding  school  that  money  can  pay  for."  Johanna 
sighed  with  relief  and  admitted  that  a  great  fear  of  the 
woman  was  beginning  to  gnaw  at  her  own  heart. 

With  rather  complex  feelings  Johanna  saw  the  children 
start  for  school  every  morning.  In  her  mind  they  never  had 
an  independent  existence.  They  were  a  part  of  herself.  The 
complement  of  her  own  purposes  and  ambitions.  They  were 
a  weapon  of  offence  against  Josie  Duggan,  who  had  no 
daughters,  against  Helena  Rafter,  now  Helena  Dowd,  who, 
despite  her  grand  boarding  school  education  married  Jamesy 
Dowd,  the  rate  collector,  and  could  ill  afford  to  overdress 
her  string  of  plain  children.  Winnie  and  Kitty,  their  bur- 


Vocations  49 

nished  pram,  and  Peggy  Delaney  their  nurse,  were  a  daily 
triumph  over  the  mothers  who  had  looked  down  on  Jo- 
hanna in  her  youth.  Sister  Eulalie  continued  the  triumph 
in  school.  Peggy  Delaney  had  strict  instructions  that  the 
children  were  not  to  be  allowed  to  speak  to  other  children 
on  their  way  to  school;  and  at  school  Sister  Eulalie  saw 
that  they  were  kept  apart  from  the  common  herd.  They 
sat  at  the  same  little  desk,  did  all  their  lessons  side  by  side ; 
and  Peggy  Delaney  was  always  waiting  in  the  hall  to  pounce 
on  them  at  playtime  and  when  school  was  over. 

When  Johanna  had  these  thoughts  of  pride  and  vanity 
too  often,  or  too  long,  she  put  them  away  and  convinced 
herself  that  all  her  care  was  for  the  safeguarding  of  the 
children's  vocation.  For  it  was  as  a  sort  of  extension  of  her 
own  soul  that  Johanna  chiefly  regarded  her  daughters.  They 
were  that  part  of  herself  which  she  .had  offered  to  God  in 
atonement  for  certain  of  her  own  vaguely  explored  defects. 
They  were  akin  to  her  daily  attendance  at  Mass,  her  visits  to 
the  Blessed  Sacrament  and  Our  Lady  of  Good  Counsel. 
And,  when  she  saw  them  off  from  the  door  every  morn- 
ing, though  she  hoped  that  Josie  Duggan  and  Helena  Dowd 
would  see  them  and  envy  her,  what  most  profoundly  moved 
her  was  the  thought  of  the  spiritual  gift  of  herself  she  was 
making  to  God. 

When  Winnie  was  nine  and  a  half  and  Kitty  eight,  Sister 
Eulalie  wrote  a  note  asking  Johanna  to  call  on  her  on  the 
afternoon  of  Reverend  Mother's  feast  without  the  children. 
Johanna  was  very  much  disturbed.  What  in  the  world 
could  Sister  Eulalie  want  to  take  her  away  from  the  shop 
on  a  market  day  for?  And  Reverend  Mother's  feast,  too, 
when  Sister  Eulalie  herself  and  all  the  nuns  were  up  to  their 
eyes.  Sister  Eulalie  met  her  at  the  gate  and  led  her  to  a 
seat  in  a  remote  part  of  the  grounds,  under  the  shade  of  a 
walnut  tree. 

"It  is  here  I  make  all  my  great  spiritual  decisions,"  the 
nun  said  impressively,  as  they  sat  down. 

"My  heart  is  going  this  way  and  that.     A  market  day 


50  Vocations 

and  Reverend  Mother's  feast  and  all !  What  in  the  world 
is  it,  dear  Sister?"  Johanna  asked  eagerly. 

"We  can't  give  important  things  too  much  significance. 
It's  the  children,"  Sister  Eulalie  said,  with  a  mysterious 
sweep  of  her  veil. 

"To  be  sure  it  is.  And  it  isn't  Winnie — that  I  go  bail. 
What  has  Kitty  been  up  to,  the  little  limb — may  God  for- 
give me  for  saying  the  like  of  one  of  His  own  chosen." 

"She  will  talk  to  Johnny  Dowd.  I  found  her  sucking  a 
bull's-eye  that  he  gave  her  yesterday"  Sister  Eulalie  said 
severely. 

"What  are  we  to  do  at  all,  at  all?"  Johanna  was  deeply 
distressed.  "There's  no  fear  of  her,  do  you  think,  Sister?" 

"Not  from  him,"  Sister  Eulalie  said.  "He  was  packed 
off  to  the  boy's  school  this  morning.  But  Kitty  is  a  difficult 
child  and  needs  guarding.  She  spoke  to  Sarah  Higgins  last 
week,"  she  added,  pursing  her  lips. 

"Them  Higginses!"  Johanna  lifted  her  eyes  despairingly 
to  the  dappled  leaves. 

"It  must  be  a  boarding  school  at  once,"  Sister  Eulalie  said 
firm  but  regretful. 

"The  sooner  the  better  it  seems  to  me."  Johanna's  tone 
conveyed  liking  and  respect  for  Sister  Eulalie,  yet  a  shade 
of  resentment  for  her  carelessness. 

Sister  Eulalie  understood,  and  her  extraordinarily  youth- 
ful and  pretty  pink-and-white  face  flushed  a  little. 

"In  a  way  it  was  my  fault — keeping  them  so  long  in  the 
infant  school,"  she  admitted  meekly.  "It  was  dearest  Winnie, 
you  know,"  she  added,  in  a  defensive  voice.  "She's  so 
engrossed  with  the  things  of  God  that  her  mind  wanders 
from  secular  subjects.  To  say  the  least  of  it,  she  was  slow 
with  her  reading  and  writing.  And  as  for  her  tables  and 

sums "  She  shook  her  head.  "I've  kept  Kitty  back  as 

much  as  I  could.  But  they'd  both  be  better  now  in  a  school 
where  they  could  mix  freely  with  other  children.  Apart 
from  external  difficulties,  they  are  thrown  too  much  to- 
gether in  class,  and  dearest  Winnie  sometimes  feels  hurt  at 
Kitty's  superiority." 


Vocations  51 

"I  wish  she  was  half  as  biddable  as  Winnie.  It's  the  heart 
that  God  looks  to  and  not  the  wits,"  Johanna  said. 

"God  gathers  both  brain  and  heart  into  His  net."  Sister 
Eulalie  gave  a  self-satisfied  smile.  "Kitty  is  all  right — a 
little  childish  ebullience,  perhaps.  The  lives  of  the  saints 
are  full  of  records  of  children's  wilfulness.  It's  the  direc- 
tion of  the  spirit  into  the  proper  channel  that  matters.  I'd 
advise  St.  Margaret's." 

"They're  not  too  swell  entirely  there?"  Johanna  asked 
complacently,  putting  up  a  ninepin  that  it  might  be  knocked 
down. 

"Nuns  are  always  the  servants  of  the  servants  of  God," 
Sister  Eulalie  said  primly.  "At  St.  Margaret's  they  train 
for  the  world  it  is  true.  But  their  chief  desire  is  to  train  for 
God.  They  are  the  most  fruitful  moulders  of  hearts  I  know 
of.  I  was  there  myself." 

"And  a  good  warrant  you  are  for  them,  I'm  sure,"  Jo- 
hanna said.  "I  often  say  to  Tom  there  isn't  in  this  world  a 
better  guide  to  God  than  Sister  Eulalie.  You're  sure  there's 
no  fear  of  Kitty  getting  a  drift  for  the  world  with  all  trie 
high-up  girls  she'll  be  coming  across?"  she  added  uneasily. 

Sister  Eulalie  smiled  reassuringly.  "I  will  tell  dear 
Mother  O'Neill  your  intention  for  the  girls.  She  will  take 
them  as  a  sacred  trust  and  will  watch  and  pray.  I've  no 
fear  at  all  of  Winnie.  Kitty  has  a  wayward  spirit  and  in- 
clines to  the  lower  life.  But  not  radically,  I'm  convinced. 
She  couldn't  with  all  our  prayers.  But  there  are  a  few 
small  points  I  must  mention.  You  won't  mind  my  being 
quite  open  with  you,  Johanna?" 

"My  skin  is  fairly  thick  by  this  with  all  I  went  through," 
Johanna  said  proudly. 

"Darling  Johanna,"  Sister  Eulalie  said,  feelingly  pressing 
her  hand.  "High  and  low,  rich  and  poor,  are  all  equal  in 
the  sight  of  God  and  His  holy  nuns,"  she  confided.  "They 
make  no  distinctions  of  class.  But  in  deference  to  the 
prejudices  of  some  worldly  parents  they  have  to  take  up  a 
certain  attitude  in  regard  to  the  class  of  pupils  they  take. 
This  is  especially  true  of  St.  Margaret's,  where  they  con- 


52  Vocations 

fine  themselves  solely  to  the  gentry.    The  retail  trade  is  un- 
known there." 

"We're  starting  a  little  in  the  wholesaling  line,"  Johanna 
said,  with  a  shrewd  questioning  look.  She  wasn't  much 
disturbed,  as  experience  had  taught  her  that  there  was  al- 
ways, in  religion,  a  way  round  seemingly  insuperable  diffi- 
culties. 

"Not  enough."  Sister  Eulalie  shook  her  head  emphatical- 
ly. "A  brewer  or  a  distiller  or  a  big  wholesale  house  in 
Dublin,  with  the  owners  living,  say  in  Rathgar,  is,  of  course, 
different.  But  a  mixed  wholesale  and  retail  in  a  country 
town — and  living  over  the  shop,  too!  It's  unheard  of." 

"They're  nice  ladylike  little  girls  and  Tom  Curtin  is 
growing  to  be  a  warm  man,"  Johanna  said,  with  spirit. 

"They  are;  though  their  accents  still  need  a  little  prun- 
ing. And  I  impressed  on  Mother  O'Neill  that  they  were  in 
a  position  to  take  all  the  extras — I  saw  her  when  I  went  to 
Dublin  last  week  with  Reverend  Mother  about  her  teeth." 

"I  hear  the  new  set  is  real  beautiful,"  Johanna  said,  biting 
eagerly  at  such  a  delicious  morsel  of  gossip. 

"The  subject  is  never  mentioned."  Sister  Eulalie  gave  a 
slight  frown. 

"It'd  be  quite  easy,  too,  to  pretend  that  the  shop  wasn't 
there."  Johanna's  retaliatory  laugh  had  in  it  a  shade  of 
malice. 

"Oh,  no,  no.  No  pretence,  Johanna.  That  would  be 
sinful.  In  view  of  all  the  special  circumstances,  however, 
Mother  O'Neill  thought  the  rules  of  the  convent  could  be 
relaxed  if  the  shop  were  never  mentioned,"  Sister  Eulalie 
said  hastily.  "They  needn't  be  ashamed  of  the  shop  or  any- 
thing like  that — just  silence  and  a  discreet  tongue,  with  now 
and  again,  perhaps,  a  little  mental  reservation.  I'll  give 
them  a  little  warning  and  instruct  them  carefully  on  what 
is  allowable.  Though  I  think  in  any  case  they'd  respond  to 
the  atmosphere  of  gentility  which  will  surround  them." 

"It'd  be  no  bad  thing  in  a  way  if  they  were  ashamed  of 
the  shop,"  said  Johanna  thoughtfully. 


Vocations  53 

Sister  Eulalie  smiled  with  all  the  shrewdness  of  which  her 
childlike  face  was  capable. 

"It  would  turn  them  towards  the  convent,"  she  said  art- 
lessly. "I  thought  of  that  in  choosing  St.  Margaret's  for 
them.  I  wouldn't  try  to  make  them  ashamed  exactly — it 
wouldn't  be  quite  religious.  But  by  encouraging  gentility 
in  them  in  every  way  the  result  would  be  the  same.  Perhaps 
for  a  year  or  two  they  might  even  spend  all  their  vacations 
at  the  convent.  At  their  age  the  atmosphere  would  then 
sink  thoroughly  into  their  natures.  Mr.  Curtin?"  she  added 
doubtfully. 

"He's  as  anxious  as  myself  to  put  the  girls  above  them 
other  riff-raff  of  the  town.  But  he  wouldn't  have  a  word 
said  agin  the  shop  on  any  account.  But  yourself  and  myself 
can  manage  it  all,  Sister  agra.  There's  the  bell  and  you 
must  be  going,  I  suppose.  I  leave  everything  in  your  hands. 
As  for  Tom,  leave  it  to  me  to  get  round  him." 

The  children  went  to  St.  Margaret's  and  stayed  there  for 
ten  years.  Winnie  got  all  the  good  conduct  prizes,  never 
mentioned  the  shop,  but  was  secretly  proud  of  the  source  of 
the  postal  orders  that  enabled  her  to  give  superior  presents 
to  the  nuns  on  their  feast  days.  Kitty  told  everyone  about 
the  shop,  defended  it  and  hated  it. 

They  were  ten  years  of  pride  for  Johanna,  not  unmixed, 
however,  with  fear.  She  saw  Winnie  and  Kitty  grow  into 
perfect  ladies.  No  daughter  of  her  generation  of  Muldoons, 
De vines  or  Rafters,  no  matter  what  her  name  or  station, 
could  even  pretend  to  the  gentility  of  her  daughters.  Their 
gentility,  indeed,  oppressed  her  a  little  at  times,  especially 
Winnie's,  who  was  zealous  for  converts  even  in  manners. 
Johanna  made  efforts  to  manage  her  cup,  to  eat,  to  sit,  to 
enter  a  room,  after  the  rule  of  St.  Margaret's ;  but  she  tried 
to  escape  the  penance  of  eating  with  her  daughters  as  often 
as  possible ;  and  made  an  offering  to  God  of  her  sufferings 
on  Sundays  when  no  excuse  could  be  found  for  eating  alone. 
Kitty  was  more  sensible  about  "them  pernickety  things" 


54  Vocations 

and  met  her  mother's  apologies  for  lapses  by  advising  her 
to  be  natural. 

Johanna  shepherded  her  daughters  to  daily  Mass,  walking 
behind  them  so  that  Winnie  could  not  afterwards  criticize 
her.  But  her  keenest  pleasures  were  the  walk  to  and  from 
twelve  o'clock  Mass  on  Sundays  and  the  Sunday  afternoon 
walk  with  Tom  and  the  children  in  their  best  Sunday  clothes. 
The  solid  prosperity  of  Curtin  and  Co.  was  manifest  in 
herself  and  Tom,  while  the  children  demonstrated  its  grace 
and  refinement.  Those  walks,  too,  were  useful  lessons  for 
the  children  in  filial  respect.  The  cordial  greetings  of  the 
priests,  the  gracious  salutes  of  Lawyer  Finnegan,  of  the 
bank  manager,  of  the  more  important  shopkeepers,  ought  to 
show  Winnie  and  Kitty  what  a  high  position  their  father 
occupied  in  the  town.  And  all  this  though  he  never  con- 
descended to  politics  beyond  subscribing  liberally,  had  re- 
fused to  go  on  the  Town  Board  or  Board  of  Guardians  and 
had  never  been  on  a  race  committee  in  his  life. 

Johanna  always  cried  when  she  saw  the  children  into  the 
train  on  their  way  back  to  school  after  the  holidays,  but  she 
invariably  walked  back  to  the  shop  with  a  brisk  step  and  a 
pleasant  feeling  of  relief.  She  could  now  walk  into  the 
parlour  at  her  ease  and  sit  as  she  liked,  admire  their  beau- 
tiful paintings  and  dream  of  their  future.  Not  that  dream- 
ing was  much  in  her  way.  The  counter  with  its  gossip,  its 
respectful  but  pleasant  badinage,  had  become  more  and  more 
her  life.  But  always  hovering  in  the  background  was 
her  relation  with  God.  Behind  the  shop,  in  the  prosperity 
of  which  she  rejoiced  and  expanded,  was  God  from  whom 
all  its  prosperity  sprang  and  on  whom  it  rested.  And  the 
children  were  the  connecting-link  between  God  and  the  busi- 
ness. In  moments  of  weakness  she  was  tempted  to  think 
that  the  success  of  the  shop  was  due  to  the  hard  work  and 
good  management  of  herself  and  Tom,  but  she  at  once  re- 
pented these  base  thoughts  and  asked  God's  pardon.  God 
was  faithful  to  her  because  of  her  promises  about  the  chil- 
dren. She  must  be  faithful  to  God  else  some  ill-luck  would 
happen  to  her.  She  was  the  least  morbid  of  women  and  had 


Vocations  55 

no  nervous  fears  or  fancies.  But  she  honestly  accepted  this 
view  of  the  Divine  government  of  the  world  and  worked  for 
her  salvation  with  the  same  assiduity  which  she  gave  to  her 
daily  work  in  the  shop. 

On  the  whole  her  spiritual  projects  were  shaping  fairly 
well.  Kitty  was  silent  and  secretive  at  home,  though  the 
nuns  said  she  was  the  most  popular  girl  in  the  school.  Jo- 
hanna longed  to  know  at  times  what  Kitty  was  thinking  of, 
but  was,  on  the  whole,  half  glad,  from  some  remote  fear, 
that  the  girl  was  uncommunicative.  It  might  be  only  the 
girl's  dissatisfaction  with  the  shop  and  her  surroundings. 
That  was  all  to  the  good.  It  might  be  other  things — but 
there,  God  would  look  after  His  own.  It  was  thus  she 
thought  of  sex.  It  had  troubled  herself  very  little,  and 
that  little  she  had  almost  forgotten.  It  was  something  not 
to  be  spoken  of,  not  to  be  acknowledged,  to  be  put  entirely 
out  of  one's  thoughts,  to  be  prayed  against,  to  be  overcome. 
It  was  a  temptation  of  the  devil,  and  all  temptations  of  the 
devil,  sooner  or  later,  yielded  to  prayer.  Young  girls  had 
to  be  careful  of  men,  of  course.  They  were  the  form  in 
which  the  devil  mostly  tempted  them.  But  Johanna  had 
nothing  to  reproach  herself  with  in  this  respect.  She  had 
kept  the  girls  entirely  apart  from  men  except  a  few  harm- 
less priests.  Some  priests  were  gay  enough  and  needed  a 
strict  eye  as  well  as  another;  but  she  flattered  herself  on  her 
judgment,  and  was  sure  that  no  wolf  had  entered  her  fold. 
If  Kitty  was  a  little  sullen-like  it  was  just  the  way  of  young 
girls  to  kick  against  the  snaffle.  Johanna  herself  hadn't 
been  obedient  to  her  father,  but  then  her  father  hadn't  been 
a  good  father  to  her.  And  to  give  Kitty  her  due,  she  was 
obedient;  and  so  well  she  might  with  the  good  mother  she 
was  to  her. 

The  year  the  girls  had  spent  at  home,  when  their  educa- 
tion was  finished,  was  a  trial  to  Johanna.  Winnie  was  a 
nuisance  with  her  crotchety  whimsies,  her  manners,  and  her 
sulks  at  not  being  allowed  to  enter  the  convent  at  once.  And 
Kitty  had  suddenly  developed  a  stubborn!  temper.  She 
was  pleasant  enough,  but  she  was  as  obstinate  as  a  mule. 


56  Vocations 

She  would  take  no  hints  about  the  convent ;  and  flatly  denied 
that  she  had  the  intense  desire  to  be  a  nun,  with  which 
Sister  Eulalie,  several  times  a  week,  credited  her.  Johanna 
meditated  putting  down  her  foot  and  ordering  her  into  the 
convent,  but  Sister  Eulalie  advised  against  it.  As  the  ad- 
vice coincided  with  Johanna's  own  judgment  she  agreed  to 
try  more  and  still  more  prayers  and  masses.  She'd  put  her 
through  the  mission  at  Carrickdhu;  and  get  a  score  of 
masses  said  for  her  by  Father  Eusapius,  the  holy  Carmelite 
of  Kensington,  who  had  more  vocations  to  his  credit  than 
any  other  priest  in  the  world.  Then,  one  could  never  tell 
how  Kitty  would  take  an  order  of  the  kind.  And  if  she 
refused  ? 

When  Tom  threw  at  her  head  his  bomb  of  marriage  for 
Kitty,  Johanna  soon  recovered  from  the  shock.  By  the 
time  she  had  completed  the  round  of  her  beads,  with  which 
she  prepared  for  bed,  she  had  fully  made  up  her  mind  that 
Tom  was  an  instrument  of  Providence.  What  a  dozen  mis- 
sions couldn't  do,  nor  hundreds  of  masses,  and  thousands 
and  thousands  of  prayers,  Tom  and  his  laddy-da  of  a  Dug- 
gan  might  do  between  them.  If  Kitty  had  a  leaning  that 
way — Johanna  asked  God's  forgiveness  for  even  thinking  it 
— the  best  way  to  cure  her  of  men  was  to  give  her  the  offer 
of  one  that  was  sure  to  sicken  her. 

She  put  out  the  light  and  listened  to  Tom's  snoring.  Her 
mind  wandered  back  over  the  past.  She  had  done  her 
duty  by  the  girls  from  the  day  they  were  born ;  and  she'd 
go  on  doing  it  to  the  end.  In  the  convent  they'd  realize  all 
their  mother  had  done  for  them.  And  God  would  continue 
to  smile  on  her.  She  pictured  a  long  and  peaceful  life,  with 
quiet  in  the  house  after  Winnie  was  gone ;  Tom  by  her  side 
she  hoped  all  through,  and,  in  any  case,  for  a  long  time  to 
come ;  with  the  faithful  Peggy  Delaney,  who  from  being  the 
best  nurse  in  the  world,  had  become  the  best  cook  and  gen- 
eral servant.  And  she'd  enjoy  the  girls  more  visiting  them 
in  the  convent  than  having  the  bother  of  them  in  the  house 
with  all  their  uppish  ways. 


Chapter  4 

THE  drawing-room  was  saturated  with  heat.  The 
shining  surfaces  of  the  mahogany  furniture  and 
the  blue  of  the  upholstery  gave  a  deceptive  ap- 
pearance of  coolness ;  but  the  smudgy  copy  of 
Millais'  "Bubbles"  seemed  hot  and  oily  and  uncomfortable, 
and  "Carnation  Lily  Rose"  gave  the  effect  of  grease  paint 
under  a  high  temperature.  Flies  droned  lazily  as  if  the 
moisture  in  the  air  weighted  their  wings.  Even  Winnie  had 
given  up  struggling  with  the  overture  to  //  Trovatore  and 
sat,  gasping  for  breath,  by  one  of  the  shaded  windows,  open 
at  the  top.  The  high  collar  of  her  cool,  blue  tussore  dress 
was  a  little  limp.  Moisture  like  tiny  dewdrops  glistened  on 
her  narrow  forehead,  near  the  roots  of  her  tired  hair,  in 
the  hollows  of  her  pretty  nose,  and  in  little  dissatisfied  lines 
at  the  corners  of  her  mouth  and  eyes.  Her  fingers  twitched 
spasmodically.  Her  face  was  slightly  flushed — more  deeply 
where  the  soft  cheeks  rounded  the  graceful  curves  of  her 
jaws.  Her  bright  eyes  gleamed. 

"Five  people  passed  in  half  an  hour,"  she  spat  resentfully 
at  Kitty,  who  sat,  facing  her,  beside  the  window  near  the 
door. 

"Only  three,"  Kitty  said  listlessly.  "Two  were  the  same 
people  coming  back." 

"Oh,"  Winnie  said  peevishly. 

She  drummed  her  fingers  on  the  arms  of  her  chair  on 
which  she  sat  as  if  about  to  spring  from  it.  She  examined 
Kitty  critically,  with  quick,  nervous  darts  of  her  eyes,  sighed 
enviously,  jumped  up  and  dabbed  her  face  with  her  hand- 
kerchief, in  front  of  a  mirror,  the  lower  end  of  which  was 
a  lake  where  swans  disported  themselves  among  water-lilies 
and  cool  green  wild  irises. 

57 


58  V  ocations 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  painted  anything  better  than  that," 
she  said,  distracted  for  a  moment  from  the  demands  of  her 
complexion. 

"Than  what?"  Kitty  said  .mechanically,  continuing  to 
gaze  at  the  street. 

"My  swans,  dear." 

"It  used  to  be  a  nice  old  glass,"  Kitty  said,  with  a  yawn. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  I'm  sure,"  Winnie  said, 
firing  up. 

"You  old  dear."  Kitty  looked  at  her  with  a  lazy  smile. 
"It's  just  a  nasty,  hot,  crotchety  old  day." 

"It's  easy  for  you  that  can  look  so  cool  no  matter  what 
heat  there  is,"  Winnie  said,  half  angrily,  half  appeased. 

"I  haven't  your  delicate  skin,"  Kitty  said,  with  the  faint- 
est shrug  of  her  shoulder,  looking  again  at  the  street,  up 
which  a  cart  was  now  lumbering. 

Winnie  smiled,  looked  at  the  glass,  arranged  her  hair, 
tried  one  or  two  changes  of  expression,  smiling  the  while, 
half  turned  so  as  to  get  a  view  of  the  line  of  her  neck  and 
shoulders. 

"You'd  be  surprised  what  a  difference  it  makes  to  the 
fall  of  the  veil,"  she  said  complacently. 

"What?" 

"The  set  of  the  head,  neck  and  shoulders,  stupid.  I  tried 
everything  on  one  day.  Sister  Eulalie  let  me.  I  was  simply 
perfect  behind,  or  in  a  side  view  from  the  back." 

She  sighed,  went  back  thoughtfully  to  the  seat  and  stared 
out  of  the  window  with  a  worried  frown. 

"I  accept  myself  as  God  made  me,  and  I'm  not  in  the  least 
bit  jealous,"  she  jerked  out  at  a  dog,  who  was  nosing  dirty 
garbage  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about?"  Kitty,  tired  of 
watching  the  dog,  said,  looking  up  with  a  slight  show  of 
interest. 

"It's  the  front  view  or  the  straight  side  view.  I'm  just 
ordinary  there,"  Winnie  said  dolefully.  "My  hair  helps  me 
out  in  the  postulant's  cap — the  sun  catches  it  so.  Really 
pretty,  with  a  distinction  all  my  own,  Sister  Eulalie  said. 


Vocations  59 

But  that  will  be  only  for  six  months.  And  with  my  hair 
hidden  under  the  white  veil  I'll  be  just  pretty  and  no  more." 

"I  sometimes  wonder  whether  you  ought  to."  Kitty 
looked  thoughtfully  at  Winnie's  worried  face.  "I  don't 
think  you  want  to  one  bit.  You're  so  proud  of  your  hair, 
too." 

"I'm  not.  I'm  not.  It's  horrid  of  you,  Kitty,"  Winnie 
said  angrily.  "I  care  for  it  as  a  gift  of  God,  but  I'm  quite 
ready  to  hand  it  back  to  Him  the  moment  He  asks  for  it. 
And  I  do  want  to  go  more  than  anything  in  the  world — 
more  than  my  life,"  she  added  excitedly. 

"I'll  have  Father  Burke  all  to  myself  when  you  go.  I'll 
light  his  cigarette  for  him  and  he'll  stroke  my  hair  and  my 
fingers,"  Kitty  said,  with  malice. 

Winnie  glared  at  her  furiously  and  mumbled  incoherent 
words,  as  if  she  were  choking. 

"You  beast — you  horrid  beast,"  she  said  shrilly,  in  a  wild 
burst  of  sobbing. 

"Oh,  don't  be  a  little  fool."  Kitty  gave  a  wondering  look 
at  the  disturbed  face.  "I  was  only  joking.  He's  a  slimy 
beast  and  I  wouldn't  let  him  touch  me.  If  you  go  I'll  never 
see  him." 

A  smile  struggled  with  anger  on  Winnie's  tear-stained 
face.  She  wept  more  quietly,  dried  her  eyes  after  a  while 
and  said  ingratiatingly: 

"I  know  you  don't  mean  the  horrid  things  you  say.  Though 
I'd  rather  you'd  mean  them  itself  than  that  you'd  take  him 
from  me.  You'd  never  understand  his  beautiful  soul.  And 
what's  harmless  for  me  might  be  a  danger  to  you.  Of  course, 
he  never  means  anything  but  the  greatest  holiness.  But  it's 
different  with  girls  who  haven't  all  the  safeguards  of  a  holy 
priest.  Nuns  have  them,  too,  of  course.  But  while  we're  in 
the  world  we  must  be  on  our  guard.  Even  holding  hands  is 
a  danger  unless  one  has  schooled  oneself  against  the  world, 
the  flesh  and  the  devil.  I  consulted  my  confessor  and  he  said 
I'm  quite  safe." 

"But  Father  Burke  is  your  confessor,"  Kitty  said,  with  a 
smile. 


60  V o  cations 

"Of  course  he  is,"  Winnie  said  serenely.  "You  miss  a  lot 
by  not  going  to  him.  He's  simply  beautiful.  I  wouldn't 
mind  your  going  to  him  in  the  least.  For,  of  course,  he's  the 
same  as  God  Himself  in  the  confessional  and  never  pretends 
to  know  you.  He's  more  spiritual  than  any  spiritual  book. 
I'm  not  sure  that  he'd  allow  you  to  hold  hands  or  things  like 
that.  That's  a  privilege  of  special  souls.  In  fact,  I  think, 
dear,  it  would  be  safer  for  you  not  to.  I  don't  think  it's 
spiritual  pride  or  anything;  but  I  really  do  believe  that  / 
could  live  in  the  world  and  not  be  of  it.  But  you,  no.  You 
need  the  protection  of  the  convent.  Good  looks  are  a  snare 
to  oneself  as  well  as  to  others,"  she  said  sententiously,  with 
a  judicial  nod  of  her  little  bird-like  head. 

"Have  they  snared  Father  Burke?"  Kitty  said  jeeringly. 

"I  think  you're  horrid  to  him/'  said  Winnie.  "I  don't 
want  you  to  be  too  nice  to  him,  of  course,"  she  added  hastily. 
"He  must  always  be  my  friend.  But  there  is  a  just  mean,  as 
Sister  Eulalie  often  says.  It  hurts  me  when  you  snub  him. 
You  might  show  an  interest  in  him  as  my  sister,  you  know — 
hand  him  his  second  cup  of  tea,  and  praise  his  sermons  and 
things  like  that.  He'd  like  you  a  little,  in  spite  of  your  stand- 
off ways,  if  you  only  gave  him  the  chance." 

Kitty  smiled  down  at  the  long  slender  fingers  resting  idly 
in  her  lap  and  moved  them,  one  after  another,  as  if  admiring 
the  trim  pink  nails. 

"The  whole  world  knows  you  have  beautiful  hands," 
Winnie  said  pettishly. 

"You'll  miss  him  when  you  go  to  the  convent,"  said  Kitty, 
her  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  firm  white  hand  which  she  slowly 
turned  back  and  front. 

Winnie  frowned.  "I  did  think  of  that,"  she  said,  with  a 
glazed  stare  at  the  window.  "Indeed,  I  cried  my  eyes  out 
often  in  bed.  I  never  told  you,  dear,  for  it  was  a  sorrow  I 
couldn't  share  with  anyone.  He  was  beautiful  about  it,"  she 
added,  in  a  thrilled  tone,  turning  ecstatic  eyes  towards  Kitty. 
"What  was  it  he  said?  I  mustn't  miss  a  word  of  it,  it  was  so 
holy  and  original.  'Sorrow  is  the  crown  of  sacrifice,'  he  said. 
'And  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  happier 


Vocations  61 

things.'  I'll  never  forget  that  much  of  it.  There  was  a  lot 
more,  but  I  can't  remember  the  exact  words.  It  all  happened 
when  I  was  giving  him  a  list  of  all  the  sacrifices  I  was  pre- 
pared to  make  for  God  in  proof  of  my  vocation.  There  was 
our  happy  home  and  all  its  comforts  with  as  many  kinds  of 
cakes  as  we  liked  for  tea,  and  the  pleasant  walks  with  papa 
and  mama  on  Sunday  afternoons,  and  our  duets,  and  morn- 
ing mass,  and  our  little  visits,  and  my  painting  and  the  view 
of  the  gaiety  of  the  street  from  our  windows  here  on  mar- 
ket and  fair  days ;  and  the  boating,  but  I  couldn't  make  much 
of  that  as  I  felt  bound  to  tell  him  I  was  always  afraid  in  a 
boat.  I  didn't  mention  parting  from  you,  not  that  it 
wouldn't  hurt  me  awfully,  darlingest,  but  because  it  would 
show  a  want  of  faith  in  prayer.  I  know  you'll  come  with 
me,  so  there  won't  be  a  parting.  He  made  light  of  many  of 
my  sacrifices.  There  would  be  cake  in  the  convent  on  feast 
days ;  and  what  with  all  the  nuns  and  novices  there  would  be 
so  many  feast  days  that  I'd  never  feel  the  want  of  it,  espe- 
cially as  I  seldom  eat  cake  for  fear  of  getting  fat.  Mass 
and  visits  and  painting  and  music  I'd  have  in  the  convent. 
The  happy  home  he  admitted  counted  for  a  good  deal.  In- 
deed he  painted  it  so  beautifully  that  I  began  to  feel  that  I 
was  giving  up  something  real.  But  you  should  hear  him 
on  the  convent  as  a  happy  home !  When  he  had  done  with 
that  I  felt  I  was  giving  up  nothing  at  all.  But  all  the  time 
there  was  the  sacrifice  I  hadn't  mentioned  and  that  I  didn't 
intend  to  mention  but  which  I  was  forced  to  unless  I  was 
to  appear  naked  before  God  without  any  offering  at  all.  I 
never  knew  how  great  a  sacrifice  it  was  until  I  tried  to  tell 
it  as  openly  as  I  could.  He  was  ever  so  tactful  and  nice 
about  it  all.  Not  a  word  was  said  about  names,  but  of 
course  he  understood  it  could  be  no  one  but  himself.  He 
admitted  it  was  a  real  sacrifice.  And  it  was  then  that  he 
became  inspired.  No  missioner  I  ever  heard  was  equal  to 
him.  I  was  so  much  moved  and  carried  away  to  the  seventh 
heaven  that  I  can't  rightly  remember.  But,  anyhow,  the 
memory  of  him  sitting  there  in  the  arm-chair  with  his  feet 
on  the  foot-stool,  holding  my  hand,  smoking  the  cigarette  I 


62  Vocations 

had  lighted  for  him  and  talking  brilliantly,  would  remain 
with  me  through  life  as  an  exquisite  sorrow  by  means  of 
which,  in  the  end,  I'd  mount  to  perfect  happiness  before  the 
throne  of  God." 

"He  wanted  you  to  go  then?"  Kitty  jerked  out,  with  a 
tightening  of  her  lips. 

"He  as  much  as  admitted  that  it  was  the  hardest  task  he 
ever  had  to  do,"  Winnie  said,  with  glowing  eyes.  "That  it 
was  not  only  the  girl  who  was  going  into  the  convent  in  such 
cases  that  made  a  sacrifice.  Other  people,  even  priests,  had 
feelings  too.  He  felt  bound  not  only  not  to  stand  in  my  way, 
but  to  urge  me  to  go.  Sacrifice,  as  he  beautifully  put  it,  was 
the  law  of  the  life  of  the  soul,"  she  ended,  with  a  sob. 

"Ah,"  Kitty  said  harshly,  through  her  teeth. 

"I  ought  to  have  felt  happy,  but  somehow  I  didn't," 
Winnie  began  again,  wiping  her  eyes.  "And  in  my  despair, 
I  mentioned  leaving  you.  I  half  promised  mother  to  stay 
till  you  got  your  vocation " 

"It's  on  its  way  from  a  wholesaler,  I  suppose,"  Kitty  said, 
with  a  sneer. 

But  Winnie  was  too  much  and  too  miserably  interested  in 
her  story  to  allow  herself  to  be  interrupted. 

"So  that  we  could  enter  on  the  one  day,"  she  continued. 
"But  he  didn't  make  much  of  it.  In  fact,  he  thought  I'd 
pray  better  for  you  in  the  convent." 

"So  that's  that,"  Kitty  said,  making  an  attempt  at  a  cat's 
cradle  with  the  fingers. 

"At  last  I  agreed  to  go  in  on  the  eve  of  the  Assumption," 
Winnie  said,  with  another  breakdown. 

"Poor  old  Winnie,"  Kitty  sympathised.  She  moved 
towards  Winnie's  chair,  and,  sitting  down  on  the  arm,  drew 
Winnie's  head  to  her  breast,  murmuring  under  her  breath 
"the  crooked  beast." 

"I'm  awfully  sorry  you're  going,  dear,"  she  said  aloud, 
fondling  the  shining  hair. 

"I'm  sorry,  too.  That  is,  I'm  glad.  Of  course  I'm  glad," 
Winnie  said  brokenly,  between  sobs.  "I  don't  know  what's 
come  over  me.  Of  course  I  always  wanted  to  go.  And  every- 


V o  cations  63 

body  wants  me  to  go.  Everybody  but  you.  And  you  don't 
know  what  you  want.  God  has  spoken  to  me  over  and  over 
again,  and  I  know.  And  I  know  what's  good  for  you,  too, 
if  you'd  only  listen  to  me.  Oh,  Kitty,  darling,  come  with 
me." 

"Poor  old  Winnie/'  Kitty  said,  with  set  teeth. 

"I  haven't  told  mother  yet.  I  won't  until  the  last  minute. 
I  can't  bear  talking  about  it  except  to  you  and — to  him,  and 
Sister  Eulalie.  I  told  her.  I  went  straight  up  to  her  last 
night  after  it  was  all  settled  and  had  a  good  cry.  She  was 
beautiful — full  of  consolation.  So  was  Father  Burke  him- 
self for  that  matter,"  Winnie  said,  smiling  through  her  tears. 

"It  isn't  as  if  I  had  to  give  him  up  altogether,"  she  went  on 
happily.  "It  won't  be  the  same,  of  course,  as  having  him 
here  all  to  oneself,  giving  him  his  favourite  cakes  and  cigar- 
ettes and  everything.  But  he'll  manage  somehow  to  see  me 
every  day.  Sister  Eulalie  was  as  kind  as  kind  could  be. 
She  understands.  She  told  me  her  own  story.  He  was  a 
Dominican — a  real  saint.  He  died.  And  the  human  side  of 
her  heart  is  like  a  stone  since — for  herself.  She  never  even 
once  had  the  slightest  inclination  to  a  real  'particular'  since 
he  went  to  God.  But  she  has  sympathy — oh,  so  much — for 
others.  She's  sacristan  now,  you  know,  and  she'll  take  me 
on  as  her  assistant  from  the  very  first.  It's  an  unusual 
privilege  for  a  'cap' — no  one  less  than  a  white  veil  ever  had 
the  duty  before.  But  she  feels.  It  will  be  such  a  happiness 
to  prepare  his  vestments  and  his  chalice.  And  I  can  give 
him  the  best  chalice  and  the  best  vestments  as  often  as  I 
like.  You  may  be  sure  it  will  be  always.  And  I  can  come 
in  to  clear  away  just  before  he  has  finished  his  thanksgiv- 
ing, and  there  will  be  a  little  minute.  Oh,  it's  too  beautiful. 
And  she'll  take  me  in  to  help  in  the  infant  school,  too,  where 
are  endless  opportunities.  Sister  Eulalie  says  he's  sure  to 
be  very  attentive  in  looking  after  the  children.  And  she'll 
try  to  arrange  for  me  to  take  in  his  breakfast.  One  must 
be  discreet,  of  course,  as  Reverend  Mother  is  very  particular 
with  caps  and  white  veils.  And  several  of  the  black  veils 
are  sweet  on  him  and  might  be  cattish.  Not  really,  you 


64  Vocations 

know — just  talk.  But  it  would  never  do  for  a  cap  to  be 
talked  about.  Only  the  mothers  or  old  nuns  like  herself 
can  afford  that,  Sister  Eulalie  says.  Besides,  it  wouldn't  be 
fair  to  him,  who  must  be,  like  Caesar's  wife,  Sister  Eulalie 
says,  above  suspicion." 

Kitty's  calm  but  expressive  face  underwent  several 
changes  while  Winnie  was  speaking.  A  look  of  sympathy 
hardened  into  disgust,  but  after  a  while  softened  into  pity. 

"Don't  do  it,  Winnie.  You  mustn't,  you  mustn't.  Surely 
you  can't  even  think  of  it.  Such " 

"My  dear,  I  can  do  even  more  than  that,"  Winnie  said 
proudly.  "I  haven't  told  you  the  supreme  sacrifice.  I'm 
going  to  give  him  up  as  my  confessor." 

She  looked  at  Kitty  for  some  sign  of  admiration,  but  find- 
ing none,  made  a  half  shamefaced  qualification;  "at  least 
for  the  present.  A  lot  of  the  nuns  wanted  him  to  be  con- 
fessor to  the  convent,  but  Reverend  Mother  and  the  bishop 
preferred  that  dry  old  stick,  Father  Brady.  Oh,  I  forgot, 
dear,  that  he's  your  confessor.  But  you  must  admit  that 
he's  dry.  I  went  to  him  once  when  he  was  on  his  holidays, 
and  never  a  word  of  consolation  or  beautiful  spirituality. 
He  wasn't  in  the  least  interested  in  my  difficulties.  In  fact, 
if  he  weren't  a  priest,  I'd  say  he  was  almost  offensive.  I'm 
sure  people  outside  the  box  could  hear  him  shouting  at  me, 
'have  some  common  sense.'  He  wouldn't  even  listen  to  my 
acts  of  mortification  and  self-denial  and  threw  an  absolution 
at  my  head  as  if  I  was  nobody." 

"I'm  glad,  anyway,  that  he'll  be  your  confessor,"  Kitty 
said,  with  a  shrug. 

"You've  no  real  sympathy  in  you,"  Winnie  said,  pouting. 

"I  feel  for  you  more  than  I  can  say,"  Kitty  said,  fondling 
her  hair.  "Just  as  if  you  were  a  little  child  and  I  were  your 
mother,"  she  added  vaguely,  staring  at  the  window  with 
troubled  eyes. 

Winnie  shook  her  off  and  said  pettishly,  "That's  the  kind 
of  sympathy  that  I  hate — it's  so  superior.  Sister  Eulalie, 
who's  miles  older  than  me,  says  I'm  wonderful,  and  you  only 
try  to  pick  holes.  Though  you  got  prizes  and  things  itself 


Vocations  65, 

I'm  older  than  you  and  naturally  have  the  most  sense. 
Besides,  as  Mother  Ogilvie  used  to  say,  'the  best  brains  in 
the  world  are  mere  dross  without  the  divine  guidance.'  / 
never  act  without  it." 

"I  wish  I  could  find  it,"  Kitty  said  harshly. 

"My  dear,  you  don't  pray  enough,"  said  Winnie,  forget- 
ting her  grievance  in  her  zeal.  "I've  found  the  greatest  dif- 
ference since  I  started  saying  the  Little  Office  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin  twice  a  day  instead  of  once — in  English  in  the  morn- 
ing and  in  Latin  in  the  evening.  It's  the  Latin,  I'm  sure 
that  does  it.  And  the  small  print  that  tries  my  eyes  is  an 
additional  help — a  little  extra  mortification,  you  know." 

"But  you  don't  know  Latin  ?" 

"It's  the  intention,  my  dear,  that  matters/'  Winnie  ex- 
plained. "It's  the  language  of  the  church  and  of  course, 
must  be  the  language  of  Heaven.  That's  why  it's  so  pow- 
erful." 

"Anyway,  I  hope  you'll  be  happy,"  Kitty  said,  with  a 
sigh. 

"Of  course  I'll  be  happy,"  Winnie  said  lugubriously. 
"With  all  I'm  giving  up  I  couldn't  be  anything  else.  Never 
mind,  I  don't  say  that  I'm  giving  him  up  as  a  confessor  for 
ever,"  she  added  more  cheerfully.  "God  wouldn't  expect 
that  of  me.  I  could  get  him  the  very  first  day  by  special 
application  to  the  bishop.  But  Sister  Eulalie  said  that  might 
be  too  marked.  He  was  against  it  himself,  too.  So  I'll  pray 
for  guidance  and  wait  a  few  weeks  after  going  in  before  I 
act  on  the  promptings  of  divine  grace.  My !  it's  all  hours — 
there's  four  o'clock." 

She  stood  up  hurriedly.  "Come,  Kitty,  our  duet.  We 
can  fit  it  in  nicely  before  tea." 

"There's  a  better  view  out  of  your  window  than  mine," 
Kitty  yawned. 

"By  keeping  quite  close  to  the  side  you  can  see  as  far  as 
Dr.  Thornton's  front  door;  but  I'm  not  sure  that  I  don't 
prefer  mine  with  the  view  of  Miss  Fagan,  the  dressmaker's," 
Winnie  said  judicially.  "I'll  give  up  mine  to  you,  if  you 
like." 


66  Vocations 

"No,  thanks,  I  prefer  my  own." 

"There's  no  pleasing  you." 

"There.  That's  the  seventh  wasp  to-day,"  Kitty  said, 
killing  a  wasp  with  a  book  on  the  tea-table. 

"There  now.  I  must  polish  the  table  again,"  Winnie 
complained. 

"Nonsense.  You  know  it's  a  godsend  to  have  something 
to  do.  Let  me  do  it."  Kitty  snatched  a  pad  from  Winnie. 
"Another  thrill  in  our  exciting  lives,"  she  went  on,  polish- 
ing vigorously.  "Hullo,  there's  a  bluebottle.  Let's  hunt 
him." 

She  threw  the  pad  on  the  table  and  started  in  pursuit. 

Winnie  took  up  the  pad  with  set  lips,  finished  the  polish- 
ing of  the  table  to  her  satisfaction,  put  away  the  pad  in  its 
drawer  and  said  firmly : 

"  Our  duet,  dear." 

"Duet  be  hanged.  There,  I'm  glad  he's  escaped.  Heigh- 
ho,  I  wish  I  could  fly  away  through  the  window." 

"Bad  language  again!  How  your  guardian  angel  is 
blushing  for  you.  You  know  I  wouldn't  be  true  to  myself 
unless  I  showed  disapproval."  Winnie  emphasized  a  horri- 
fied look  by  pursing  her  lips. 

"Pheu,  it's  hot."  Kitty  dropped  into  her  chair.  "Bad 
language?  Why,  that's  nothing  to  what  I  can  do — and  will 
if  you  look  at  me  like  that.  Stop,  or  I'll  say  damn  in  a 
second." 

"Oh,  Kitty,  pray.    Pray  at  once,"  Winnie  besought  her. 

"Murder?  I  could  do  it,  I  think;  I  can  kill  a  wasp  with- 
out a  qualm.  But,  no.  I  don't  want  to  die.  And  jail  would 
be  no  worse  nor  better  than  this.  If  a  man  would  only  run 
away  with  me,  I'd  go  like  a  shot." 

"A  man!"  Winnie  blushed  furiously.  "What  would 
mother  say?  And  Mother  Ogilvie)  and  Sister  Eulalie? 
What  God  feels  I  can't  even  think — and  your  guardian  angel 
and  the  Blessed  Virgin !" 

"I  hate  men.  I  hate  every  man  that  ever  was  born," 
Kitty  cried  passionately. 


Vocations  67 

"Ah!  But  not  hate,  say  dislike.  That  is  sometimes  a 
sign  of  a  vocation." 

"I'm  so  lonely.  And  'twill  be  worse  when  you  go."  Kitty 
wiped  away  a  tear  that  trickled  down  her  pale  cheek. 

"There — that's  another  sign,"  Winnie  said  excitedly. 
"And  Kitty,  dear,  it  would  be  a  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost 
not  to  enter  with  a  face  like  that,"  she  went  on  admiringly. 
"To  be  able  to  cry  without  going  red  and  having  swollen 
lids  is  a  great  gift  of  God.  You'd  look  like  a  holy  picture — 
Mater  Dolorosa  or  Blessed  Margaret  Mary  Alacoque — with 
a  background  of  the  black  veil  and  the  white  guimpe  and 
dimity.  I  try  not  to  be  jealous,  though  I  have  every  reason 
to  be — front  and  back  and  sideways  you'd  look  magnificent. 
Oh,  do  come  with  me,  Kitty.  It  would  be  flying  in  the  face 
of  providence  not  to.  When  God  gave  you  that  face  He 
marked  you  out  for  His  own." 

"Fudge,"  Kitty  said  impatiently.  "If  He  bothered  about 
us  at  all,  you  wouldn't  be  going  into  the  convent  to  play  the 
fool,  and  I  shouldn't  be  moping  my  life  out  here.  I " 

They  both  heard  the  loud  creak  which  the  stairs — the 
third  step  from  the  top — made  under  their  mother's  heavy 
tread.  Winnie's  eyes,  which  were  raised  to  heaven  in  angry 
protest,  turned  towards  the  door,  while  she  shook  a  warn- 
ing finger  at  Kitty  and  said,  "Ssh,  mother."  Kitty  shrugged 
her  shoulders,  got  up  and  shook  the  cushion  in  her  chair,  a 
look  of  pleased  anticipation  in  her  eyes,  though  she  said 
grudgingly,  "Mother  is  all  the  excitement  we  have.  How- 
ever, she's  better  than  nothing." 

Winnie's  strangled  whisper,  "Dearest  mother!  How 
could  you,  Kitty !"  was  cut  short  by  the  pushing  open  of  the 
door  and  the  boom  of  Mrs.  Curtin's  voice : 

"Well,  girls.  It's  you're  lucky  to  be  sitting  there  at  your 
ease  on  a  hot  day  like  this." 

The  girls  were  standing  in  that  attitude  of  respectful  at- 
tention proper  to  the  reception  of  superiors  according  to  the 
ritual  of  St.  Margaret's  as  instilled  by  Mother  O'Donnell. 
"Yes,  mother,"  they  both  replied  in  unison. 

"It's  a  terrible  villain  of  a  day,  glory  be  to  God,"  Mrs. 


68  Vocations 

Curtin  said,  forcibly  expelling  her  breath,  "but  if  I  could 
sit  at  my  leisure  in  a  nice  cool  room  like  this,  I'd  be  as 
happy  as  a  queen." 

She  mopped  her  face  with  a  handkerchief  and  looked 
around  admiringly.  "Well,  well,  to  be  sure,  it's  the  great 
painters  you  are,  thanks  be  to  God." 

"Artists,  mother  dear,"  Winnie  said  primly. 

"Think  of  that  now.  And  whose  chair  am  I  to  have  to- 
day? Your  father  often  says  to  me,  'We  must  get  another 
arm-chair  for  the  girls'  drawing-room,  so  that  you  needn't 
be  taking  their  seat.'  But  I  say  to  him,  sure,  if  they  took 
it  into  their  heads  to  leave  us  it's  wasted  it  would  be.  By 
the  same  token  there's  no  cooler  rooms  in  Drumbawn  on  a 
hot  day  than  up  at  the  Mercy  Convent." 

Kitty  pushed  her  chair  forward  a  little.  Mrs.  Curtin 
flopped  into  it  with  a  thud. 

"Oh,  not  that  way,  mother.  You  should  sink  down  grace- 
fully— your  feet  a  little  more  back.  The  third  rule  of  mod- 
esty, you  remember,"  Winnie  said,  holding  up  a  warning 
finger.  "But  you're  dressed  up,  mother,"  she  added  excit- 
edly. "What  in  the  world  is  it  for?  Mother  is  dressed  up, 
Kitty.  Think  of  that — and  never  giving  us  notice.  Is  it — 
is  it  Father  Burke  is  coming  to  tea  ?" 

"Oh,  one  thing  and  another,"  Mrs.  Curtin  said,  with  a 
secretive  smile.  "And  I  down  behind  the  drink  counter  I 
saw  a  whiskey  traveller — Jamieson's  it  was — come  in  at  the 
door.  He's  a  stuck-up  young  fellow,  with  a  fancy  waist- 
coat and  a  diamond  pin  in  his  cravat,  so  I  just  slipped  my 
apron  on  to  the  floor,  and  there  I  was  dressed  up  to  the 
nines." 

"Yes,  but  what  had  you  your  new  dress  on  under  it  for  ?" 
Winnie  persisted.  "It  is — it  must  be  because  you've  asked 
Father  Burke  to  tea.  I  must  run  and  tell  Peggy  to  get  some 
cakes." 

"The  cakes  is  all  got.  You  needn't  stir  hand  or  foot. 
Sorra  one  of  you'd  hit  on  it  if  you  were  guessing  for  a 
month  of  Sundays." 


Vocations  69 

"It's  not  the  traveller?"  Winnie  asked  haughtily,  but 
doubtfully. 

"The  Muldoons  might  do  the  like  of  that,  but  you  can 
trust  your  mother  not  to  demean  herself  or  her  children," 
Mrs.  Curtin  said,  with  a  frown.  "Not  but  that's  a  present- 
able young  man  enough,  and  might  rise  to  something  with 
time  and  the  grace  of  God.  But  there's  no  call  on  me  to 
lift  him  from  the  level  where  God  put  him.  A  traveller, 
indeed !  It's  the  most  high  and  mighty  young  man  in  the 
town  of  Drumbawn." 

A  growing  curiosity  at  last  broke  down  Kitty's  expression 
of  studied  indifference.  She  steadied  a  slight  twitching  of 
the  lips  and  asked  coldly : 

"Who  is  it,  mother  ?" 

"Someone  you'll  like  a  great  deal.  Your  father  is  always 
on  the  look-out  for  some  fresh  gaiety  to  give  you.  'Ask 
that  nice  young  man  in  to  tea  to  see  them,'  he  said,  and  sure 
enough  I  asked  him,  and  he's  coming.  If  he's  not  a  gentle- 
man itself  he's  next  door  to  one." 

Mrs.  Curtin,  having  completed  the  smoothing  of  her 
skirt,  paused,  looked  up  at  Kitty  and  caught  her  fleeting 
look  of  disappointment. 

"It's  Mr.  Joe  Duggan,"  she  added,  with  contemptuous 
emphasis  on  the  "Mister." 

"The  young  man  with  the  boots."  Kitty's  low  laugh  did 
not  entirely  conceal  her  disappointment. 

"He  wears  'em  loud,  I've  no  doubt,  to  call  off  attention 
from  his  legs.  But  sure  them  itself  are  as  God  made  'em," 
Mrs.  Curtin  said.  "He's  a  fine  young  man  for  all  that  one 
of  his  shoulders  is  a  bit  sunk.  His  warped  chest  is  a  bit 
agin  him,  but  sure  it  comes  by  nature  from  the  Muldoon 
side  of  him  and  they  aren't  given  to  consumption,  though 
one  of  'em  died  of  it.  He  has  fine  manners,  I'm  told,  but 
what  else  would  you  expect,  and  he  a  shop-boy  above  in 
Arnott's." 

"And  you  never  asked  Father  Burke,"  said  Winnie  dole- 
fully. 

"I  did,  then.    Not  that  he  liked  at  all  to  be  coming  with 


70  Vocations 

the  same  Joe  Duggan.  Run,  Kitty,  and  open  the  door. 
There's  Peggy,  and  she  might  spill  something  if  she  has  to 
put  down  the  tray  on  the  landing." 

But  it  was  Winnie  who  got  to  the  door  first.  She  exam- 
ined the  tray  anxiously.  Her  mother  might  have  made  a 
mistake.  She  gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  Everything  was 
there — even  the  eclairs  that  he  sometimes  liked. 

"Father  Burke  must  have  his  own  chair."  She  pointed 
excitedly,  when  she  had  arranged  the  table,  to  her  own 
arm-chair  by  the  upper  window. 

"Then  I  suppose  I  must  yield  up  Kitty's  to  Joe  Duggan," 
Mrs.  Curtin  said. 

"Indeed,  you  shall  not."  Kitty  pushed  her  mother  back 
into  the  seat.  "What  in  the  world  put  it  into  father's  head 
to  ask  that  man  ?" 

"Who  knows?"  Mrs.  Curtin  gave  a  sly  look  at  Kitty. 
"Still,  I  don't  at  all  like  putting  a  man  of  his  awkward 
build  on  a  high  chair.  It  takes  an  unfair  advantage  of  him, 
in  a  way.  Your  father  thinks  the  world  and  all  of  him. 
Not  but  that  his  wife'd  never  die  in  the  workhouse.  He's 
a  commanding  man,  though  you  wouldn't  think  it  by  his 
looks ;  any  more  than  you'd  think  he  was  college  bred. 
Close  is  no  name  for  a  Duggan  and  Josie  Muldoon  had  a 
poor  time  of  it  with  his  father.  Sorra  lace  for  her  shoe  she 
could  take  out  of  the  shop  without  his  leave,  and  it's  often 
she  didn't  get  that  for  the  asking.  But  by  all  accounts  Joe 
is  a  good  business  man,  and  if  his  wife  won't  have  the 
spending  of  the  money  itself  she'll  know  it's  behind  her. 
He's  not  a  man  I'd  choose  for  a  huband  myself,  but  young 
girls  don't  know  what's  good  for  'em.  And  who  knows  but 
he  might  be  better  than  he  looks?  and  maybe  reports  belie 
him.  Your  father  is  sometimes  right  in  his  judgment  of 
a  man,  though  he  thought  well  of  that  villain,  Carty,  that 
we  had  who  stole  the  money  out  of  the  till.  There's  a  knock 
at  the  front  door.  Give  me  a  hand  up,  Kitty,  I'll  have  to 
rise  to  bid  the  priest  the  time  of  day,  though  I'd  be  long 
sorry  to  go  out  of  my  way  to  do  the  same  for  Josie  Mul- 
doon's  son.  If  he  comes  in  while  I'm  on  my  feet,  well  and 


Vocations  71 

good ;  and  he's  sure  to  be  in  time,  he's  that  eager.  I 
wouldn't  put  it  past  him  even  to  knock  at  the  front  door, 
though  it's  more  like  a  Duggan  to  be  currying  favour  with 
your  father  By  coming  in  through  the  shop.  They  can  be 
humble  enough  when  they  have  anything  to  gain  by  it, 
though  in  the  bottom  of  their  hearts  they  think  they  have 
only  to  look  at  a  girl  and  she'd  run  after  them  and  offer  to 
marry  them." 

There  was  no  pause  in  the  flow  of  Mrs.  Curtin's  words 
as  Kitty  helped  her  out  of  the  arm-chair  and  moved  the 
chair  to  a  suitable  position  near  the  tea-table.  Winnie  had 
long  ago  decided  that  her  mother  could  not  be  trusted  to 
pour  out  tea.  Mrs.  Curtin  had  gladly  acquiesced,  but  in- 
sisted on  a  whole  side  of  the  little  table  for  herself,  with  a 
clear  space  in  which  to  manoeuvre  her  cup  and  saucer  and 
plate. 

"The  burthen  of  entertaining  Joe  Duggan'll  fall  on 
yourself  and  myself,  Kitty,"  she  said,  in  a  mysterious  whis- 
per, as  Winnie  rushed  out  of  the  room  to  greet  the  priest. 
"Winnie  won't  have  an  eye  in  her  head  for  anyone  but 
Father  Burke.  I  hope  you'll  like  him  for  your  poor  father's 
sake,  he's  so  set  on  it.  And  often  there's  more  good  in  a 
man  than  meets  the  eye." 

"I'll  not  insult  him,"  Kitty  said  coldly. 

But  she  felt  by  no  means  cold.  Long  experience  of  her 
mother's  expository  methods  taught  her  the  meaning  of  the 
situation.  Little  thrills  of  pleasurable  excitement  shot 
through  her,  quite  independently  of  her  thoughts,  which 
were  in  a  conflicting  whirl.  If  she  could  only  not  think  at 
all,  but  just  merely  feel !  An  overwhelming  sense  of  relief 
possessed  her — relief  from  the  threat  of  the  convent.  Her 
body  felt  so  light,  almost  without  weight,  that  it  seemed  as 
if  she  could  fly  off  through  space,  full  of  a  deep  peace.  .  .  . 
A  vague  picture  formed  itself  somewhere  beyond  her  con- 
sciousness. She  had  seen  it  often  during  the  past  year,  but 
always  before  she  had  had  the  feeling  of  looking  at  it 
through  prison  bars,  fettered  and  helpless.  Now,  with  this 
new  freedom  in  her  heart  and  limbs,  she  could  draw  near 


72  V  ocations 

and  explore  the  mystery  that  somehow  held  the  realization 
of  all  her  longings.  But,  Joe  Duggan?  It  was  all  too  hor- 
rible. It  was  the  mere  thought  of  him  that  gave  her  that 
stab  of  pain.  She  mustn't  think  at  all.  It  wasn't  necessary 
to  think  of  him.  They  had  given  up  the  idea  of  the  convent 
for  her.  That  was  enough  to  think  about,  with  its  feeling 
of  unutterable  joy.  There  was  Winnie  jabbering  on  the 
landing  with  Father  Burke,  and  her  mother  going  forward 
to  greet  him,  and  behind  them,  coming  sheepishly  forward 
from  the  stair-head,  that  loutish  young  man  from  next  door, 
with  the  awful,  bright  magenta  tie  and  the  striped  waistcoat. 
She  looked  for  the  sickly  yellow  boots,  but  couldn't  see  his 
feet.  They  all  felt  so  far  away  from  her  in  this  new  exulta- 
tion which  had  taken  possession  of  her.  She  pressed  her 
hands  to  her  sides  to  find  out  if  she  were  real,  and  glanced 
at  the  mirror  to  see  her  face.  She  wasn't  even  blushing, 
though  she  felt  so  hot.  And  now  they  were  coming  in 
She  pulled  herself  together  and  glanced  again  at  the  mir- 
ror. Her  cool,  firm  skin,  the  ivory  pallor  faintly  tinged 
with  colour,  the  calm,  brooding,  brown  eyes,  reassured  her. 
Her  mother's  half -sneering  introduction : 

"Here's  Mr.  Duggan,  who's  anxious  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance," found  her  prepared. 

She  gave  him  her  hand  mechanically  and  judged  him  by 
the  strictest  St.  Margaret's  standard.  His  "Happy  to  meet 
you,  Miss  Kitty — delighted,  I'm  sure,"  was  dreadful,  but  it 
was  in  keeping  with  his  slouching  gait  and  smirk.  This 
man,  who  reminded  her  of  one  of  the  big  monkeys  at  the 
Zoo,  had  nothing  to  do  with  her — could  have  nothing  to  do 
with  her.  How  Daisy  Thornton  and  Bessie  Sweetman 
would  have  shrieked  at  the  idea!  He  had  nothing  in  com- 
mon with  Dr.  Thornton- — even  with  any  ordinary  man.  She 
smiled  as  she  withdrew  her  hand  from  his  possessive  clasp. 
Nothing  escaped  her :  the  clamminess  of  his  hand ;  the 
reddish  red  hairs  over  the  bluish  red  skin,  dappled  with  un- 
sightly freckles,  of  his  coarse  hand;  the  detestable  white 
cuffs,  which  showed  a  flannel  shirt  underneath;  the  white 
dicky,  which  also  failed  to  conceal  the  shirt ;  the  impossible 


F  o  cations  73 

tie,  which,  however,  had  a  kinship  with  the  colour  of  the 
skin  of  his  neck  and  face  j  the  long  bony  nose  on  which  the 
skin  was  stretched  too  tightly;  the  immense  Adam's  apple 
bobbing  up  and  down  in  his  long  crane-like  neck ;  the  thick 
blue  lips  half  hidden  by  a  straggling  red  moustache;  the 
fishlike  eyes  which,  with  an  offensive  mixture  of  shyness 
and  insolence,  seemed  to  be  sizing  her  up ;  the  brownish  red 
hair  which  was  flattened  with  oil  far  down  on  his  forehead ; 
the  ready-made  grey  suit  with  the  creases  of  the  shop-shelf 
still  conspicuous.  The  boots  were  just  as  she  expected, 
worse  indeed,  for  the  laces  didn't  match ;  and,  of  course,  he 
brought  his  hat  into  the  drawing-room. 

"You  might  say,  'How  do  you  do,'  to  me/'  Father  Burke 
said  pettishly. 

She  gave  him  her  hand  with  a  sigh  of  relief  and  a  smile 
that  brought  one  to  his  face.  He  at  least  looked  like  a  man. 
He  pressed  her  hand.  She  withdrew  it  with  a  slight  wrench, 
and  said  drily : 

"Your  usual  chair  is  ready  for  you." 

"Two  cushions  to-day  or  only  one?"  said  Winnie,  with  a 
coy,  excited  smile. 

"Thanks,  thanks,"  Father  Burke  said,  with  a  morose 
look  at  Kitty. 

"Take  your  seat,  Mr.  Joe,  between  myself  and  Kitty," 
said  Mrs.  Curtin  affably  to  the  sweating  young  man. 

"Cherry  cake  and  eclairs.  And  Peggy  is  just  coming  in 
with  the  scones.  Are  you  quite  sure  there's  nothing  else 
you'd  like?"  Winnie  whispered,  as  she  took  her  place  be- 
hind the  teapot. 

"Nothing,  thanks,"  Father  Burke  snapped,  his  eyes  fixed 
with  a  contemptuous  smile  on  Joe  Duggan,  who,  with  a  face 
like  a  turkey  cock,  was  gazing  at  his  hat  in  angry  helpless- 
ness. 

"Let  Peggy  take  that  and  put  it  in  its  proper  place  in  the 
hall,"  Mrs.  Curtin  said,  with  a  smile  at  Kitty. 

Father  Burke  sniggered.  Kitty  blushed.  He  had  really 
no  right — and  he  prided  himself,  too,  on  his  good  manners. 
And  her  mother  shouldn't.  .  .  .  One  could  dislike  a  person 


74  V  ocations 

without  showing  it.  Even  a  dreadful  person  shouldn't  be 
hurt.  She  took  the  hat,  passed  it  on  to  Peggy  and  smiled 
invitingly  towards  the  empty  chair  beside  her  mother.  Joe 
Duggan  gave  her  a  grateful  look  and  sat  down  awkwardly. 

There  was  a  long  silence  while  Winnie  poured  out  tea. 
Father  Burke's  nose  lent  itself  readily  to  sneering,  while 
Joe  Duggan,  unused  to  teas  in  drawing-rooms,  gave  him 
ample  opportunity  of  exercising  its  powers.  He  spilt  his 
tea  and  got  into  such  confusion  with  his  cup  and  saucer 
and  plate  that  he  could  neither  drink  nor  eat.  Kitty's  sym- 
pathy was  aroused  partly  by  his  helplessness,  but  more  by 
Father  Burke's  manner.  She  soon  put  Duggan  at  his  ease 
and  restored  his  confidence  in  himself.  His  first  awkwardly 
muttered  thanks  changed  to  ogling  glances.  Father  Burke's 
sneer,  from  being  smilingly  contemptuous,  became  angry  as 
he  watched  with  a  speculative  frown.  Winnie  made  several 
remarks  to  him  in  a  low  voice,  but  he  answered  her  shortly. 
Winnie's  temper  was  quickly  rising,  but  as  she  could  not 
possibly  be  vexed  with  Father  Burke,  she  vented  her  anger 
on  her  mother  in  several  reproving  looks  preceded  by  sharp 
coughs.  Mrs.  Curtin,  however,  resolutely  refused  to  meet 
her  eyes  and  ate  scone  after  scone  with  placid  enjoyment. 

"It's  a  very  chick  little  room — very  chick,  indeed,  the 
young  ladies  have,  Mrs.  Curtin,"  Duggan  said,  with  an 
appraising  look  around,  while  he  wiped  his  moustache  elab- 
orately with  a  red  silk  handkerchief. 

"It  cost  a  power  of  money,"  said  Mrs.  Curtin,  making  a 
dive  for  a  particularly  well-buttered  scone. 

"I  believe  you,  ma'am.  We  had  that  very  line  of  chairs 
at  Arnott's,  and  they  ran  to  three,  seventeen,  six.  Very 
chick,  indeed,  but  extravagant,  ma'am.  I  oughtn't  to  give 
away  things  and  I  in  the  trade,  only  I  have  such  an  inter- 
est now  in  the  family.  But  I  could  put  you  up  to  a  tip  on 
another  line,  more  flash  if  any,  and  just  as  chick,  at  one, 
eleven,  nine.  On  six  chairs  it  would  save — let  me  see " 

"I  dare  say  you  could  buy  the  girls'  dresses  cheaper, 
too  ?"  Mrs.  Curtin  said  drily. 

"You  might  bet  your  life  on  it,  ma'am.    I  was  sizing  'em 


V  ocations  75 

up,  by  the  way  of  no  harm,  and  they  run  to  a  pretty  penny. 
I  could  save  a  five-pound  note  on  Miss  Kitty  alone  this 
minute,  from  head  to  heel,  judging  everything  by  what  I 
see.  And  ten  pounds  and  more  as  I've  often  seen  her 
dressed  in  the  street.  The  great  secret  in  the  drapery  trade 
is  to  save  in  the  quality  without  altering  the  chick." 

"Hear  that  now,  Kitty?"  Mrs.  Curtin  gave  a  comfort- 
able laugh. 

"Mr.  Duggan  has  such  exquisite  taste."  Father  Burke 
spoke  with  an  elaborate  expression  of  sarcasm. 

"I  had  to  work  hard  for  it,"  said  Duggan,  with  a  satis- 
fied smile.  "By  the  same  token  I  must  be  off,"  he  added, 
with  a  glance  at  the  clock.  "With  a  big,  growing  business 
I  haven't  much  time  for  frillings,  but  I'm  sure  Miss  Kitty'll 
understand  me." 

"You'll  wake  up  poor  old  Drumbawn,"  Father  Burke 
said,  with  a  pleased  smile  at  Duggan's  preparation  for  leav- 
ing. 

"You  bet,  your  reverence.  It's  been  only  a  one-horse 
town  up  to  this,  but  with  the  right  kind  of  wife  behind  me 
and  as  soon  as  the  excitement  of  her  is  off  my  mind,  I'll 
make  it  hum.  Good-bye,  Miss  Kitty,  and  now  as  I've 
broken  the  ice  pleasantly,  I'll  drop  in  as  often  as  I  have  the 
leisure." 

He  shook  hands  all  round,  giving  Kitty  an  extra  pressure 
and  a  special  leer  all  to  herself.  Mrs.  Curtin  shook  the 
crumbs  off  her  dress  with  a  sigh  at  the  remaining  scones, 
gave  Kitty  a  scrutinizing  glance  and  seemed  pleased  with  the 
result. 

"I'll  see  Mr.  Duggan  out  of  the  front  door,"  she  said, 
with  alacrity. 

Half-way  across  the  room  Duggan  turned  round  and  said 
impressively : 

"It's  a  pleasant  day  entirely  they're  having  for  the  Car- 
rickdhue  steeplechases." 

"I  didn't  know  you  added  racing  to  your  other  accomp- 
lishments," Father  Burke  said,  with  an  offensive  laugh. 

"I  don't.     But  a  man  must  make  pleasant  conversation, 


76  V  ocations 

and  I  forgot  it  before,"  Duggan  said,  with  some  dignity. 
"Good  evening  all,  Miss  Kitty." 

"Pheu,"  said  Father  Burke,  with  a  look  of  disgust  as  the 
door  closed.  "Now  let's  have  more  air." 

He  pulled  viciously  at  the  end  of  the  blind  and  allowed  it 
to  spring  up. 

"What  did  your  mother  mean,  Winnie,  by  asking  me  to 
tea  with  such  a  boor?  I've  never  been  subjected  to  such 
ignominy." 

Kitty  laughed  happily.  "After  all,  he's  one  of  your 
parishioners." 

"Oh,  Father  Burke,  dear  Father  James,  I'm  so  sorry,  I'm 
so  sorry,"  Winnie  said  penitently,  with  clouded  eyes. 

"Officially,  perhaps — though  even  that's  more  Brady's 
matter  than  mine.  But  socially — my  God!"  said  Father 
Burke  in  a  disgusted  tone,  with  a  frown  at  Kitty.  "And  to 
make  you  girls  suffer  all  this.  There's  nothing  whatever  in 
it  as  far  as  you're  concerned,  tell  me  that?  The  hulking 
brute!" 

"Give  him  a  cigarette,  Winnie,"  said  Kitty  calmly. 

"Dear  Father  James,  I'm  so  sorry.  Do  sit  down  and  He 
back,  and  I'll  put  the  footstool  under  your  feet,"  Winnie 
said,  fussing  round  him. 

"I  don't  admire  your  taste,"  he  said  bitterly  to  Kitty, 
ignoring  Winnie. 

"It's  a  good  negative  taste,"  she  said  pointedly. 

He  bit  his  lip  and  laughed.  "Your  sister  is  an  extraordi- 
nary girl,  Winnie  dear,"  he  said  moodily,  rubbing  Winnie's 
cheek  with  the  back  of  his  fingers.  "She  quarrels  with  her 
friends  and  can  tolerate  a  guy  like  Joe  Duggan." 

His  eyes  moved  towards  the  mirror.  He  gave  Winnie  a 
fatherly  pat  on  the  head  and  then  smoothed  back  his  own 
already  smooth  hair  from  the  side  parting.  He  smirked  at 
the  general  effect  of  his  slim  body,  the  long  narrow  head 
tapering  down  gracefully  to  a  slender  neck  which  was  deli- 
cately poised  on  rather  sloping  shoulders.  He  set  his  lips 
more  firmly  to  counteract  the  slight  weakness  in  the  mouth 
and  chin. 


Vocations  77 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  Kitty,"  Winnie 
said,  "to  go  on  like  that  with  Father  James,  who  would  be 
nice  to  you  if  you'd  only  let  him." 

Kitty  smiled  enigmatically. 

"You're  a  horrid  girl,  that's  what  you  are,"  Winnie  went 
on,  still  more  incensed.  "She  tries  to  be  clever.  Don't  mind 
her,  Father  James.  I  couldn't  make  head  or  tail  of  what 
she  was  saying  to  you.  I  don't  think  she  knows  herself. 
Do  sit  down  and  enjoy  yourself  now  that  horrid  man  is 
gone." 

"Don't  speak  badly  of  your  future  brother-in-law." 
Father  Burke  gave  a  short  laugh,  his  eyes  fixed  on  Kitty. 

The  indirect  reference  to  marriage  thrilled  Kitty.  Ever 
since  her  childhood  the  word  had  intrigued  her,  but  all  dis- 
cussion of  it  was  taboo.  Often  in  walks  under  the  elms  at 
St.  Margaret's,  when  they  could  make  a  three,  she  had 
spoken  of  it  with  Bessie  Sweetman  and  Daisy  Thornton, 
but  always  (so  great  was  their  shame  and  fear)  indirectly 
.  .  .  vague  thoughts  still  more  vaguely  uttered.  And  now 
she  was  face  to  face  with  this  wonderful  mystery.  She 
even  felt  a  sort  of  gratitude  to  Joe  Duggan  for  having 
opened  a  way  for  her.  Father  Burke's  reference  to  him 
made  her  smile  contentedly. 

Winnie  stared  at  the  priest,  her  mouth  half  'open  in 
stupefied  amazement. 

"Yes,  your  brother-in-law,"  he  said,  in  angry  derision. 
"The  haughty  Kitty's  husband !  I  can  understand  a  woman 
selling  her  soul  to  the  devil  for  a  man,"  he  went  on  furi- 
ously. "But  to  marry  Duggan !  to  live  with  him  night  and 
day!  Kitty,  your  worst  enemy  couldn't  wish  you  a  worse 
hell — to  have  to  listen  to  his  talk,  to  sit  opposite  to  him  at 
meals,  to  bear  him  children." 

He  clenched  his  hands  and  his  lips  writhed.  It  wasn't  a 
nice  face  now,  but  Kitty  liked  it.  The  smooth  sneering 
smile  had  gone,  and  the  lisp  in  his  voice.  Passion  burned 
in  his  eyes.  She  stared  at  him,  fascinated.  Every  nerve  of 
her  body  was  strung  with  emotion.  Her  breath  rose  and 
fell  in  quick,  short  pants.  .  .  .  She  liked  him  as  she  had 


78  Vocations 

never  liked  him  before,  but  it  was  not  he  but  what  he  said, 
that  made  her  heart  beat  quickly,  gave  her  a  feeling  of  ex- 
quisite pleasure.  The  horrors  he  painted  did  not  touch  her 
at  all.  She  saw,  not  Joe  Duggan,  but  Dr.  Thornton.  The 
hell  with  which  she  was  threatened  was  heaven — a  heaven 
of  which  she  had  dreamed,  but  of  which  she  had  hardly 
dared  to  think.  Like  Duggan,  Father  Burke  was  an  oc- 
casion, an  instrument  for  unfolding  the  secrets  of  her  heart, 
for  disclosing  the  road  to  bliss. 

"You  won't  do  it?  You  won't  do  it,  Kitty — for  me?" 
he  said  in  the  old  lispy  drawl  that  was  merely  an  affectation 
but  had  the  effect  of  adenoids,  his  eyes  fawning  on  her. 

The  change  jarred  her,  but  she  gave  him  a  smile  in  which 
there  was  now  no  repulsion.  A  man  slumbered  somewhere 
in  him  behind  all  his  affectations  and  philandering.  She 
could  understand  him  now,  hate  him,  but  she  could  no  longer 
quite  despise  him.  She  could  respect  the  man  behind  the 
distorted  face  of  a  moment  ago;  even  be  grateful  to  him. 
But  this  puppet,  with  his  half -derisive,  half -ingratiating 
and  wholly  vain  smile?  As  she  stood  before  him,  an  in- 
scrutable smile  on  her  lips,  she  was  callous  in  her  analysis 
of  every  line  of  the  weak,  obstinate  face. 

"You'll  do  it  for  me?  I'll  help  you,"  he  said,  with  a 
furtive  glance  at  Winnie,  who  was  weeping  quietly,  bent 
over  the  back  of  an  arm-chair. 

Kitty's  eyes  followed  his.  Her  lips  tightened  and  her 
smile  gave  way  to  a  frown.  If  he  hurt  Winnie  she'd  be 
ruthless  with  him. 

"You're  making  a  mountain  out  of  nothing.  In  any  case 
I  can  manage  my  own  business,"  she  said  coldly. 

The  priest  frowned  with  vexation.  Winnie  rushed  for- 
ward and  threw  her  arms  around  Kitty's  neck. 

"Oh,  listen  to  the  priest,  Kitty  darling,"  she  sobbed 
hysterically.  "He's  all  for  your  good.  Father  James,  who's 
so  fond  of  us  both!  I  never  could  stand  the  disgrace  of 
Joe  Duggan.  What  would  Sister  Eulalie  say?  A  man  like 
him!  Dear  papa  looks  quite  a  gentleman.  And  people 
don't  mind  one's  father  so  much.  But  Mr.  Duggan's  hands, 


Vocations  79 

and  his  face — all  of  him!  His  talk!  And  I  was  just  see- 
ing you  in  the  black  veil  and  all.  God  has  deserted  me — 
may  God  forgive  me  for  saying  anything  of  the  kind.  If 
it  was  God's  will  that  anything  so  dreadful  was  to  happen, 
I  wouldn't  mind  a  gentleman  so  much — but  that  man! 
And  he'd  have  to  be  asked  to  my  reception  and  profession 
dejeuners — how  could  we  ever  explain  him  away  to  the 
nuns  and  visitors  ?  A  lot  of  the  old  girls  might  come — we'd 
be  disgraced  for  ever." 

"Don't,  Winnie,  don't !"  Kitty  patted  her  head.  "It's  all 
in  Father  Burke's  imagination." 

The  priest  laughed. 

"Perhaps  later  you'll  regret  this  attitude,"  he  said  bitterly. 
"I  know  you,  and  you'll  hate  it.  But  I'd  better  leave  you  to 
come  to  your  senses." 

"Oh,  don't  go,  Father  James,"  Winnie  cried,  and  rushed 
towards  him  and  caught  his  coat.  "You  haven't  had  your 
cigarette  yet.  I  know  I'm  looking  a  fright.  But  you  won't 
mind  it  for  once,  will  you?" 

"Good-bye,  good-bye,  child.    I've  some  duties  to  attend 
to,"  he  said,  and  pushed  her  roughly  aside. 

Winnie  stared  helplessly  after  him.  As  the  door  banged 
behind  him  she  turned  towards  Kitty: 

"It's  bad  enough  to  marry  Mr.  Duggan,  but  to  offend  the 
priest !" 

"Poor  Mr.  Duggan,"  Kitty  said  gaily.  "There,  he's  off 
down  the  street  now.  Look !  His  eyes  as  usual  looking  for 
cigarette  ends  or  stray  coppers  in  the  gutter." 

"If  he  is  to  be  your  husband,  you  shouldn't  speak  of  him 
like  that — indeed,  whether  you  are  or  not,  it's  not  nice," 
Winnie  said  primly. 

"You  little  fool !"  Kitty  gave  a  happy  sigh.  "Who's 
thinking  of  niceness?  I'm  so  happy  I  can  be  cruel  without 
hurting." 


Chapter  5 

ON  the  forenoon  of  the  eve  of  the  Assumption  at 
eleven  o'clock  Winnie  and  Kitty  walked  in 
silence  down  Bridge  Street  and  across  the  bridge. 
For  some  days  Winnie  had  been  in  a  state  of 
weeping.  A  word,  a  look,  a  touch,  a  memory,  an  antici- 
pation led  to  floods  of  hysterical  tears.  Only  the  incentive 
of  a  last  confession  to  Father  Burke  nerved  her  now  to 
come  out  of  doors  and  face  the  danger  of  a  public  break- 
down. She  walked  along  the  accustomed  pavements  with 
her  eyes  half  shut,  her  lower  lip  held  tightly  between  her 
teeth,  the  lower  part  of  her  face  hidden  in  a  fluffy  white 
feather  boa.  She  made  a  special  effort  to  control  herself 
as  she  approached  the  corner  of  Paradise  Lane,  where  Moll 
Creany,  from  behind  her  stall  of  delisk  and  green  apples, 
was  sure  to  offer  sympathy.  The  whole  town  must  know 
by  now  that  she  was  entering  the  Mercy  Convent  in  the 
evening;  and  Moll  was  sure  to  condole  with  her.  Winnie 
held  a  shilling  between  her  fingers  and  relaxed  the  hold  on 
her  lip  in  order  to  rehearse  the  smile  with  which  she  was  to 
present  the  coin,  and  the  reply  to  the  almost  certain  expres- 
sion of  sorrow.  "You  mustn't  say  sorry,  Moll.  You  must 
be  glad,  for  this  is  the  happiest  day  of  my  life."  In  front 
of  Kelly's  grocery  when  she  lifted  her  eyes  for  a  moment 
and  saw  that  Moll  wasn't  in  her  place,  the  tears  almost 
came.  She  had  to  clutch  hard  at  the  shilling  and  bite  into 
her  lip  to  counteract  the  feeling  of  disappointment. 

"The  priests  are  sure  not  to  be  there  either,"  she  whis- 
pered brokenly,  as  they  turned  down  the  lane  towards  the 
church. 

"Who?  What?  Oh,  the  priests.  They're  sure  to  be," 
Kitty  said,  snatched  unexpectedly  from  her  own  thoughts. 

"If  you  were  going  in  to-night,   I'd  show  more   sym- 


Vocations  81 

pathy,"  said  Winnie,  letting  a  tear  fall  now  that  they  were 
past  the  houses  and  had  no  onlookers  but  the  church  rail- 
ings. "You  haven't  cried  even  once." 

"Haven't  I?" 

"I  haven't  seen  the  tears,  anyway,"  Winnie  said,  looking 
at  her  with  interest.  "There's  not  a  sign  on  your  face 
though  it's  as  pale  as  a  sheet.  Paleness  becomes  you, 
though.  Everything  becomes  you/'  she  went  on  fretfully. 
"I  know  my  nose  is  red  and  my  eyes  are  puffy.  It's  not 
fair.  I  can't  even  show  my  feelings  without  looking  dread- 
ful." 

"If  you  could  only  get  over  to-day  everything  would  be 
all  right,"  Kitty  said,  with  an  effort  at  hopefulness. 

"I  don't  want  to  get  over  to-day.  It's  the  only  pleasure 
I  have.  No  one  takes  any  notice  of  me.  It's  the  first  time 
Moll  Creany  wasn't  at  her  stall  for  a  year.  And  we  never 
met  blind  Lanty  nor  anyone.  No  one  is  a  bit  sorry  I'm 
going — not  even  father  and  mother.  They  never  even 
offered  me  Mr.  Duggan,  and  I'm  the  eldest,  too." 

"I  wish  to  God  they  did." 

"Thank  you  for  nothing,"  Winnie  said  huffily.  "I  don't 
want  a  husband.  The  devil  may  have  tempted  me  some- 
times in  that  way,  but  I  always  overcame  him.  He  is  very 
trying  now  and  then,  and  I  have  to  use  the  scourge  Mother 
O'Brien  made  for  me,  the  one  with  the  seven  knots  in 
honour  of  the  seven  sacred  wounds.  And  he's  always  worse, 
of  course,  with  those  who  are  dedicated  to  God.  But  the 
scourge  drives  him  away.  And  St.  Winifred  is  very  help- 
ful. And  St.  Anthony  is  a  real  angel — not  the  Padua  one 
who's  all  right  for  finding  things,  but  the  desert  one,  you 
know,  that  used  to  be  so  much  tempted  himself  by  the 
devil." 

She  was  so  interested  in  her  subject  that  she  became 
cheerful  and  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  gravelled  drive  to 
delay  their  entrance  to  the  church.  "If  ever  you  want  a 
real  friend  I'd  advise  you  to  take  him  on — he  doesn't  need 
bread  or  anything.  Though  naturally  he'd  be  more  friendly 
if  you  wore  his  medal." 


82  Vocations 

She  stamped  her  foot  with  a  sudden  force.  "All  the 
same,  though  I'm  nearly  sure  I  don't  want  one,  I  should 
have  had  the  chance  of  refusing,"  she  said  angrily.  "The 
other  novices  are  certain  to  boast  of  having  had  offers,  and 
I've  never  had  a  single  one.  Why,  everybody  at  St.  Mar- 
garet's said  that  Mother  Curdon  refused  a  lord.  What  a 
romance  that  would  be  to  have  in  one's  life!"  she  added, 
with  a  sigh  of  regretful  awe. 

Kitty  blushed  vividly  through  her  pale  skin.  If  only  her 
lord  should  one  day  propose,  she  wouldn't  refuse  him.  She 
forgot  Winnie,  and  her  worry  over  Joe  Duggan,  and  pur- 
sued a  day-dream  in  the  tired  Portugal  laurel  at  the  side 
of  the  drive.  Sfc>me  day  she'd  get  to  know  him,  somehow  or 
other.  They  said  marriages  were  made  in  heaven.  Surely 
he'd  have  feelings  like  hers.  For  the  last  couple  of  weeks, 
since  she  had  allowed  herself  to  think  of  him  freely,  he 
must  have  known.  Bessie  Sweetman  used  to  speak  of 
something  called  telepathy — she  must  find  out  more  about 
it.  He  must  have  felt  her  eyes  fixed  on  him  from  behind 
the  curtain  as  he  passed  up  and  down  the  street,  and  the 
beating  of  her  heart  that  threw  a  mist  over  her  eyes  so  that 
she  saw  him  only  as  a  blurred  figure.  If  only  Daisy  Thorn- 
ton would  ask  her  to  stay — he  often  visited  there.  The 
Finnegans  were  no  good.  They  were  only  on  the  fringe  of 
the  county,  and  would  be  afraid  of  the  shop.  He  played 
tennis  there  often,  but  it  would  be  easier  to  get  to  know  the 
Lord-Lieutenant  himself  than  the  Finnegans,  who  were 
neither  one  thing  nor  another.  And  Stella  Finnegan,  too, 
only  a  Loretto  girl — nothing  at  all  compared  with  St.  Mar- 
garet's. It  was  disgraceful  how  Stella  made  eyes  at  him 
in  the  street.  But  Daisy  Thornton  was  real  county  and 
might  be  different — though  even  she  had  given  her  up  since 
they  left  school.  The  shop ! 

"You're  not  listening  to  a  word  I  say,"  said  Winnie  pet- 
tishly. "I  see  some  people  coming  along  by  the  railings. 
Let's  get  in  before  the  rush." 

In  the  half  darkness  of  the  church  porch  a  whoop  of  woe 
from  blind  Lanty  restored  Winnie  to  a  tearful  cheerfulness. 


Vocations  83 

She  was  a  holy  martyr  going  up  among  them  nuns  and  'd 
be  sure  to  work  a  mission  on  some  few  of  'em  who  had 
hearts  of  stone  for  blind  Lanty.  She'd  be  a  shining  jewel 
among  them  and  'd  mount  up  to  be  Reverend  Mother  in  no 
time. 

She  gave  him  the  shilling  and  he  "lighted  her  soul  to 
glory"  with  a  vehemence  that  brought  a  little  russet- faced 
priest,  in  a  temper,  through  the  swing  door  from  the  side 
aisle. 

"I  can't  even  read  my  office  in  peace  with  you,  you 
ruffian — disturbing  the  house  of  God  like  this/'  he  said 
angrily. 

"It  was  only  praying  I  was,  your  reverence,  Father 
Brady,"  Lanty  whined. 

"Is  it  deaf  you  think  that  God  is?"  the  priest  said,  with 
a  gleam  in  his  grey  eyes.  "Oh,  the  Miss  Curtins !  I  thought 
someone  was  spoiling  the  villain.  Be  off  with  you  now." 

"Sure  I  couldn't  but  have  luck  with  the  sixpence  your 
blessed  reverence  gave  me  this  morning."  Lanty  said  ingra- 
tiatingly. 

"Be  off  with  you  of  this,  and  do  your  robbery  and 
blasphemy  somewhere  else,"  the  priest  said  sternly.  "What's 
this  I'm  told  about  you,  Miss  Winnie?  The  last  person  in 
the  parish  to  hear  anything  is  the  parish  priest.  Still,  I 
manage  to  know  things  somehow  or  other.  This  evening? 
Well,  well.  You  might  very  easily  do  worse." 

His  grey  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  speculatively,  and  not 
unkindly. 

"I'll  be  very  happy,"  she  said. 

"It's  what  we're  all  hoping  for  day  in  and  day  out,"  he 
said,  with  a  smile.  "When  we're  young  we  like  changing 
our  toys,  always  hoping  the  next  one  '11  be  the  lasting  hap- 
piness. I  suppose  it's  only  by  cutting  ourselves  often 
enough  that  we  learn  how  to  use  a  knife — if  we  ever  learn 
at  all.  I  cut  myself  badly  the  day  before  yesterday,  and  I 
sixty !  and,  would  you  believe  it,  Miss  Winnie  ?  for  the  last 
seven  years  I'm  sticking  to  an  old  briar  pipe  with  a  hole  in 


84  Vocations 

the  bowl  of  it,  that's  a  daily  penance  to  me,  all  for  fear  that 
the  next  one  mightn't  taste  as  sweet.  If  I  could  only  grow 
young  again  now,  I'd  be  more  sure  of  things.  But  this  is 
only  an  old  man's  meanderings." 

"Oh,  there  are  eleven  people  around  Father  Burke's  box. 
Do,  please  excuse  me,  Father,  I  must  hurry."  Winnie,  who 
wasn't  listening,  rushed  excitedly  in  through  the  open  door. 

Father  Brady  laughed.  "She'll  beat  out  the  woman  run- 
ning from  Our  Mother  of  Good  Counsel.  What?  No. 
She's  lost  the  race.  Well,  well,  with  the  two  in  the  box 
that's  fifteen  for  Father  Burke.  And  Father  Dunne  has 
four.  And  there's  no  one  at  all  at  my  box — unless  you're 
going  to  me  ?"  he  added,  with  a  dry  smile. 

"You  can't  get  rid  of  me."    Kitty  laughed. 

"Dry  bread — and  stale  and  hard  at  that — is  all  I  have  to 
give  'em,  and  they  don't  like  it,"  he  said,  with  a  tolerant 
shrug  of  his  shoulders.  "Young  people  can't  endure  using 
their  teeth.  Father  Dunne  gives  'em  good  wholesome  bread, 
and  a  few  people  come  to  him  for  the  trifle  of  butter  he 
puts  on  it.  But  Father  Burke  is  the  man  for  them — the 
very  latest  cakes  and  plenty  of  jam  and  honey  and  butter 
and  treacle — golden  syrup,  they  call  it  now — to  suit  every 
taste.  Well,  well,  the  world  is  made  up  of  all  kinds.  What's 
this  they  tell  me  about  you — that  you're  going  to  marry  Joe 
Duggan  ?" 

"I  am  not." 

He  busied  himself  in  fixing  the  marker  in  the  breviary 
which  he  had  been  holding  partly  open  with  his  finger. 
"It'll  take  Miss  Winnie  a  long  time  to  get  in  to  Father 
Burke,  and,  maybe,  longer  to  get  out  of  him,"  he  said  drily, 
as  he  slipped  the  book  into  a  torn  pocket  of  his  old,  green- 
ish soutane.  "If  you  don't  want  to  go  to  confession  right 
off  we  might  have  a  stroll  round  outside  in  the  sun.  It'll 
save  you  a  headache,  maybe,  from  the  bad  air  within." 

"I  want  a  talk  with  you  badly,"  she  said. 

"Tut-tut.  All  you  want  is  sunshine  and  fresh  air,"  he 
said  cheerfully,  leading  the  way  out  of  the  church.  He 
seemed  to  forget  her  as  he  strode  along  by  the  side  of  the 


V  ocations  85 

church  towards  a  white  wooden  gate  in  the  shrubbery  at 
the  back,  a  thoughtful  frown  on  his  fresh  face. 

"We'll  be  quieter  in  here."  He  held  the  gate  open  for 
her. 

"How  peaceful!"  she  said,  with  a  sigh,  as  the  old  two- 
storied  presbytery  embedded  in  roses  almost  to  the  roof 
came  into  view  round  the  corner  of  a  wide-spreading  copper 
beech. 

"It's  all  right  for  the  old  or  the  unhappy — all  they  want 
is  to  be  left  quiet  with  something  maybe  for  their  hands  to 
do,"  he  said  absentmindedly,  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  wooden 
seat  under  a  shady  elm  on  the  lawn  in  front  of  the  house. 

"But  you  work  from  morning  till  night,"  she  laughed 
ironically. 

"Tut-tut.  I  think  we'll  sit  here,  after  all,  and  not  in  the 
sun.  I  was  thinking  of  something  else.  Do  you  think 
Winnie'll  be  happy  up  there  ?" 

He  indicated  vaguely  with  his  hand  the  direction  of  the 
convent  on  the  hill. 

"I  don't  know,"  Kitty  said,  sitting  down.  "That  is,  I'm 
afraid  she  won't.  She's  not  old  enough,  nor  unhappy 
enough,"  she  added,  looking  up  at  the  frowning  face  with 
a  half -sad,  half -mischievous  smile. 

"Some  people  have  a  lot  to  answer  for.  Fools  of  women, 
that's  what  they  are,"  he  said  fiercely.  "Religion!  They 
have  as  much  religion  as  my  old  shoe." 

He  held  up  a  dusty,  down-at-heel  brogue  with  a  con- 
temptuous smile.  "There's  Winnie  going  into  the  convent 
with  her  heart  half -broke.  Mind  you,  I  don't  say  it's  not 
the  best  place  for  her — now.  And  then  there's  you.  Well, 
well.  So  you  won't  marry  Joe  Duggan?" 

"I  won't." 

"And  if  your  father  puts  down  his  foot?" 

Her  lips  quivered  a  little.  "I'm  perfectly  miserable,"  she 
said  bitterly.  "If  you  speak  to  me  like  that,  I'll  have  to 
cry." 

"Poor  child,  poor  child,"  he  said.  "There,  there,  now. 
Don't  give  in  to  it,"  he  added  hastily.  "The  only  way  to 


86  Vocations 

meet  trouble  is  to  laugh  at  it.  They've  done  their  best  to 
made  a  fool  out  of  you,  and  you've  managed  to  keep  some 
sense  up  to  this.  Nuns  are  the  best  people  in  the  world  in 
their  own  way,  though  it  often  passes  the  wit  of  man  to 
know  what  way  it  is — many  of  'em,  anyway.  They  taught 
you  to  get  in  and  out  of  a  carriage  up  at  St.  Margaret's? 
Tell  me  that  now — and  other  fal-lals  like  it?" 

Kitty  smiled. 

"Painting  and  embroidery  and  other  rubbish  that  turned 
young  girls  into  perfect  ladies  when  the  old  Reverend 
Mother  up  there  was  at  school  herself.  I  may  be  a  bit  old- 
fashioned  myself,  but  I  use  my  eyes.  If  you  cram  a  girl 
with  that  sort  of  thing  in  these  times,  the  only  place  for 
her  is  in  a  glass  case  or  a  convent.  If  she  turns  her  back 
on  both — seeing  the  sort  of  religion  they  stuff  her  with — 
it's  not  unlikely  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  she  goes  headlong 
to  the  devil." 

"It's  a  pleasant  prospect  for  me,"  Kitty  said  demurely. 

"It  was  the  salvation  of  you  that  you  could  see  through 
it,"  he  chuckled.  "But  I  wouldn't  be  too  sure  of  myself, 
if  I  were  you.  Some  of  that  truck  always  sticks.  Why 
won't  you  have  Joe  Duggan,  now?" 

"I  couldn't."    She  shuddered. 

"There  now,"  he  said  triumphantly.  "That  shiver  that 
went  through  you  was  more  than  half  of  it  St.  Mar- 
garet's. Poor  Joe  has  no  drawing-room  manners,  and  what 
he  has  he'd  be  better  without.  And  he's  no  Adonis,  I  admit. 
But  he's  decent  poor  gom.  Not  half  as  clever  as  he  thinks, 
maybe,  though  that's  a  failing  we  all  have.  He's  no  better 
and  no  worse  on  the  whole  than  any  other  man  of  your  own 
station  in  Drumbawn." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  marry  him?"  she  asked  rebelliously. 

"I  don't  think  you'd  be  much  of  a  catch  for  him,"  he  said. 
"He's  taken  now  by  your  father's  money ;  and,  maybe,  a 
bit  by  your  looks.  But  after  a  while  you'd  jar  on  him  just 
as  much  as  he'd  jar  on  you.  And  you'd  be  useless  to  him  in 
his  business." 


Vocations  87 

She  flushed  a  little.  "You  don't  spare  me,  but  I  know  it's 
true,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Then  there's  some  one  else?"  he  questioned,  with  a 
shrewd  smile. 

"I  wish  you  could  get  father  to  see  things,"  she  said,  with 
a  still  deeper  flush.  "First,  it  was  mother  about  the  convent. 
Now,  it's  father  about  Joe  Duggan.  He  doesn't  give  me 
rest  or  peace.  And  mother  is  hinting  again  at  the  convent 
as  a  way  out  of  Mr.  Duggan.  I  don't  know  which  I'd  hate 
the  most.  Oh,  can't  you  do  anything?"  she  added  appeal- 
ingly. 

"You  poor  child.  Of  course  I'll  do  everything  I  can." 
He  sat  down  beside  her  on  the  seat.  His  eyes  took  on  a 
worried  look  and  he  stubbed  the  earth  with  his  shoe.  "It's 
a  queer,  cantankerous  world  and  you  have  struck  a  bad 
corner  of  it,"  he  said  gloomily.  "I  suppose  I  ought  to  tell 
you  to  obey  your  father  and  mother.  Still,  you  can't  very 
well  marry  Joe  Duggan  and  become  a  nun  at  the  same  time. 
The  difficulty  with  many  fathers  and  mothers  is  that  they're 
thinking  of  themselves  and  not  of  their  children.  If  the 
children's  inclinations  run  with  the  parents',  all  goes  well. 
But  if  they  don't,  there's  the  devil  to  pay.  Your  father  is 
thinking  of  his  business  and  your  mother  of  her  soul;  and 
yourself  and  Winnie  are  a  pair  of  dolls  they  have  dressed 
up  to  deck  out  one  or  the  other.  I  wouldn't  say  this  if  I 
thought  you  had  a  splinter  of  the  timber  of  a  nun  in  you, 
or  if  a  marriage  with  Joe  Duggan  was  anything  but  a 
danger  of  lifelong  misery  for  you  both.  God  unfitted  you 
for  the  one  and  your  mother  and  father,  in  the  way  they 
brought  you  up,  for  the  other.  They'll  never  see  this,  not 
if  I  bellow  it  into  their  ears  till  doomsday.  Your  father'll 
be  a  rock  of  sense  about  the  convent  and  your  mother  about 
Joe  Duggan ;  but  let  me  cross  them  in  their  own  desires 
and  they'll  both  be  as  obstinate  as  mules.  The  most  hard- 
ened sinner  on  earth  is  the  father  or  mother  that  is  certain 
sure  it  is  doing  right  for  its  child.  They  are  so  full  of  the 
feeling  of  virtue  they  have  no  room  for  any  thought  of  sin. 
Every  fresh  wrong  is  another  step  up  the  ladder  of  grace. 


88  Vocations 

It's  a  queer  world,  glory  be  to  God.  Good  people,  too,  that 
wouldn't  throw  a  lump  of  soft  clauber  at  a  cat,  for  fear  of 
hurting  it,  will  torture  a  soul  or  two  without  turning  a 
hair." 

Kitty  listened  to  the  soft  drone  of  his  voice  with  only 
half  her  mind,  and  even  that  half  was  not  deeply  impressed. 
A  few  moments  ago  her  father  and  mother  had  seemed  real 
obstacles.  But  now  something  in  the  air,  the  drowsy  hum  of 
bees  as  they  flitted  from  flower  to  flower  in  the  narrow  strip 
of  herbaceous  border  in  front  of  her,  the  cool  green  of  the 
grass  and  leaves  in  the  shadow  of  the  tree,  the  smiling  face 
of  the  house,  seemed  to  freshen  her  blood  and  give  her  a 
new  vigour.  Her  father  and  mother  might  have  their  de- 
sires and  purposes,  but  she,  too,  had  her  own  purpose. 
And  this  wonderful  feeling  that  it  gave  her  held  in  it  a  new 
consciousness  of  power. 

"I  can  go  away  and  live  my  own  life,"  she  said. 

"There  would  be  that,  of  course.  That'd  be  a  way  out — • 
that  is,  if  you  could  do  it.  You  have  no  money  except  what 
your  father  likes  to  give  you."  He  doubtfully  pursed  his 
lips. 

"I  could  work — anything,"  she  said  vaguely.  There  was 
no  weakening  in  her  confidence  in  herself,  in  her  power  to 
achieve  even  the  impossible.  But  she  remembered  that  it 
was  here  in  Drumbawn  she  must  work  out  her  destiny. 
He  was  here.  To  go  away  would  defeat  her  purpose. 

"If  they  made  a  good  clerk  of  you,  now,  up  in  St.  Mar- 
garet's, or  a  doctor,  or  a  nurse  or  a  good  sempstress,  or  put 
you  through  the  Intermediate  itself,"  he  said,  rubbing  his 
chin  with  his  forefinger.  "Or  even  fitted  you  to  cook  a 
dinner.  But  no — they  were  too  grand  to  teach  you  any- 
thing useful  for  man  or  God.  You  used  to  wear  gloves, 
I'm  told,  when  you  came  down  to  see  your  mother  in  the 
parlour?  And  your  mother  herself  boasts  that  she  never 
once  allowed  ye  to  set  foot  in  the  shop.  All  they  made  of 
you  between  them  was  a  nice  young  lady  who  could  twirl 
her  thumbs  all  day  and  do  as  she  was  bid.  The  sort  of 
music  and  painting  you  know  is  waste  in  the  market.  I  can 


V  ocations  89 

see  nothing  in  front  of  you  that'd  bring  you  in  a  pound  in 
a  twelvemonth." 

She  was  busy  drawing  a  head  with  the  point  of  her 
parasol  in  the  beaten  clay  in  front  of  the  seat,  and  made  no 
reply.  The  chin  wasn't  strong  enough.  Of  course  she 
could  do  things,  a  thousand  things,  and  earn  money,  too. 
But  it  wasn't  necessary  now.  She  was  going  to  stay  at 
home.  She'd  just  wear  out  her  father  over  Joe  Duggan. 
And  he'd  help  her  against  her  mother  and  the  convent. 
Her  father  might  even  jump  at  Dr.  Thornton.  Father 
Brady  could  help  in  many  ways. 

"Is  that  my  photograph  you're  drawing  there?"  he  said, 
with  a  grin.  "You  might  earn  a  few  pence  at  that,  but  it 
would  hardly  keep  you  from  the  workhouse." 

"I  might  marry,"  she  said  suddenly,  after  a  meditative 
look  at  a  flower-bed  in  which  she  seemed  to  have  discovered 
the  solution. 

"Ah!"  he  said  quietly.  "Now  we're  coming  down  to 
bed-rock.  I  was  asking  myself  all  along  who  the  other  man 
was.  When  a  girl  is  so  determined  in  refusing  a  man  she 
generally  has  another  up  her  sleeve.  It  can't  be  Jasper 
Rafter,  for  he  has  a  crooked  nose,"  he  went  on,  his  eyes 
on  the  drawing  in  the  clay.  "Nor  Tim  Devine,  who  has  a 
moustache.  And  it's  just  as  well,  for  I  doubt  if  your 
father'd  look  at  either  of  'em.  It  might  be  John  Thomas 
Muldoon,  but  he'd  be  a  poor  exchange  even  for  Joe  Dug- 
gan." 

She  made  a  little  movement  of  disgust. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  with  a  shrug.  "Sure,  I  ought  to  know  a 
St.  Margaret's  girl  better  than  to  think  that  she'd  stoop  to 
her  own  level.  It's  some  prince  out  of  a  fairy  book,  I'll  be 
bound." 

"No.    It's  a  real  man."    She  blushed. 

"Think  of  that  now !  Soaring  up  to  a  lawyer  or  a  doc- 
tor you'll  be.  It's  not  young  Parrel,  the  solicitor?  He's  on 
the  look-out  for  a  wife  with  money,  I'm  told." 

"That  fat  little  tub,"  she  said,  with  an  intolerant  smile. 
"No,  it's  someone  you  like  very  much." 


90  Vocations 

The  priest  looked  puzzled.  "I  can't  think  of  anyone  else 
in  the  town  that's  free  to  marry  that's  at  all  likely." 

He  gave  a  slight  start  and  said  with  a  frown,  "It  couldn't 
be — it's  some  one  you  know  well,  of  course  ?" 

"No.  it's  some  one  I've  met — yet,"  she  said  shyly,  "I 
know  him  well  by  sight,  of  course.  And  his  cousin  Daisy 
used  to  be  my  greatest  friend  at  school.  It's  Doctor  Thorn- 
ton," she  added,  in  a  whisper,  blushing  deeply. 

He  hid  the  look  of  pain  in  his  eyes  by  running  his  fingers 
through  his  shaggy  white  eyebrows,  muttering  under  his 
breath,  "My  God — them  nuns — them  nuns."  He  stood  up 
and  tried  ineffectively  to  kill  a  wasp  with  his  handkerchief. 

"There  must  be  a  nest  of  'em  somewhere  about,"  he  said, 
blowing  his  nose. 

"It's  trying  to  take  a  rise  out  of  a  simple  old  man  you 
are,"  he  said,  with  a  little  hollow  laugh,  taking  unnecessary 
pains  to  replace  the  handkerchief  in  the  pocket  of  his  soutane- 
"How  in  the  world  could  you  be  in  love  with  a  man  you've 
never  spoken  a  word  to?  The  like  was  never  heard  of." 

"Oh,  but  it  is  true,"  she  said  tremulously.  "It  must  have 
been  for  the  last  two  years  at  least.  For  a  year,  I'm  cer- 
tain. Though  I  didn't  really  know  what  it  was — that  is,  I 
didn't  admit  it  to  myself  till  about  a  fortnight  ago.  Per- 
haps I  ought  to  have  told  it  to  you  in  confession,  but  there 
was  nothing  at  all  to  confess.  You  see,  I  prayed  and  prayed 
and  kept  the  thought  away  from  me  till — and  I  haven't  been 
to  confession  since." 

"Tut-tut.  There's  nothing  at  all  in  it.  A  man  you  never 
even  bid  the  time  of  day  to.  Pheu,  pheu!  A  dose  of  castor 
oil  you  want,  or  a  pill.  Girls  often  have  them  day-dreams  or 
nightmares.  A  man  you  just  saw  passing  in  the  street. 
You'll  forget  all  about  him  in  a  week."  He  puffed  and  blew 
and  pushed  back  restlessly  his  thick  white  hair  with  his  open 
palm.  "Rubbish.  In  a  few  days — maybe,  before  night." 

She  smiled  up  at  him  confidently,  her  brown  eyes  glowing 
in  their  calm  depths.  "No.  I  may  not  know  much,  but  I 
know  about  myself.  I  love  him.  If  he  died  to-morrow,  or 
if  I  never  met  him  to  speak  to,  I'd  never  love  anyone  else. 


Vocations  91 

I've  lived  on  him  for  a  year — a  sort  of  pleasure  and  pain 
that  kept  me  from  going  mad.  I  didn't  know — most  of  the 
time — what  it  meant.  And  it  often  hurt  me  as  much  as  it 
helped  me.  But  for  the  last  fortnight  it  has  been  heaven. 
I'm  worried,  of  course,  with  that  dreadful  man  coming  to 
tea,  and  father  dragging  at  me  one  minute  and  mother  and 
Winnie  the  next.  But  nothing  really  matters  now,  except 
him.  I—" 

The  priest's  frowning,  twitching  face  made  her  hesitate. 
"You're  not  vexed  with  me  for  allowing  myself  to  think  so 
much  of  him?  I'm  afraid  it  must  be  sinful — I'll  tell  you  all 
about  it  in  confession.  But  I  can't  be  sorry.  I  don't  know 
what  you'll  think  of  me.  I'm  just  happy;  happy." 

"Nonsense,  nonsense.  Why  would  I  be  vexed  with  you  ?" 
He  frowned  at  the  trees.  "It's  just  indigestion.  It'll  pass 
off.  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  speak  to  your  father.  I'll 
make  him  listen  to  me.  Even  if  he's  a  fool  itself,  he's  a 
decent  man.  And  your  mother,  111  give  that  woman,  with 
all  her  religion,  the  talking  to  of  her  life.  I'll  nun  her  .  .  . 
herself  and  her  convent.  We'll  put  the  kybosh  on  Joe  Dug- 
gan.  I'll  make  your  mother  take  you  to  Lisdoonvarna  or  to 
Malahide  or  to  Bray  where  you'll  meet  plenty  of  young  men 
in  one  of  them  big  hotels.  You'll  soon  find  that  the  world 
isn't  made  up  of  only  one  man.  Don't  bother  your  head, 
child,  about  a  man  you  don't  know.  There's  many  a  nice 
young  girl  takes  a  magrim  in  her  head  over  an  actor  or  the 
like  that  she  only  sees  on  the  stage.  But  it  vanishes  like 
smoke  before  the  first  likely  young  fellow  she  has  a  dance 
or  a  senachie  with." 

Kitty's  eyes  clouded.  She  sighed  and  said  a  little  stiffly, 
"I'm  sorry,  Father,  you  take  me  like  that.  It's  not  like  you. 
I  hoped  so  much  you'd  understand  and  help  me.  I  don't  want 
to  go  to  Lisdoonvarna  or  to  any  big  hotel.  I  don't  want  to 
meet  young  men.  I  only  want  to  meet  the  one  man  who  is 
in  my  heart  day  and  night.  You  may  call  be  a  bad  girl  for 
talking  to  you  like  this.  But  if  you  could  only  know  how  I 
feel.  He  is  more  to  me  than  my  life — than  my  soul  even. 
Don't  look  at  me  in  that  strange  way.  I  don't  want  pity,  I 


92  Vocations 

want  help.  You're  a  great  friend  of  his  and  could  do  some- 
thing in  some  way.  I  don't  care  if  you  think  me  forward 
and  unladylike.  You  won't  ?  Well,  I  must  get  Daisy  Thorn- 
ton to  help  me.  I'm  sorry  I  troubled  you.  Winnie  will  be 
waiting  for  me." 

"No,  no,  child,  not  that.  You  entirely  misunderstood 
me,"  he  said,  pushing  her  back  gently  on  to  the  seat  from 
which  she  had  half  risen. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  hopeful,  confident  smile,  but 
he  nervously  shifted  his  eyes.  The  whirr  of  a  mower  came 
faintly  across  the  lawn. 

"There's  that  damn  man  using  that  damn  machine  again, 
and  we  can't  bear  our  ears,"  he  said  fiercely,  as  he  turned 
his  back  on  her  and  stared  in  the  direction  of  the  unoffend- 
ing gardener  with  a  troubled  frown,  muttering  under  his 
breath,  "My  God,  my  God,  the  poor  child,  the  poor  child. 
Did  anyone  ever  hear  the  like?" 

He  wet  his  dry  lips  with  his  tongue  and  swallowed  hard. 
"I  can't  stand  that  noise,"  he  said  aloud.  "Come  away  into 
my  study  for  a  minute,  and  we'll  finish  our  talk  there." 

He  led  the  way  quickly  across  the  few  feet  of  grass  and 
the  broad  gravelled  path,  as  if  he  wished  to  escape  from  her. 
She  followed  with  an  expectant  smile,  pulling  as  she  passed 
through  the  door  a  rosebud  from  a  cluster  hanging  low  down 
over  the  lintel.  It  was  her  favourite  rose,  and  she  took  it  as 
a  lucky  omen.  She  felt  a  thrill  of  extraordinary  happiness 
as  she  pressed  the  flower  to  her  lips. 

"That's  Father  Burke's  sitting-room  in  there,"  he  said  in 
the  tone  of  one  who  is  thinking  of  something  else.  "Full  of 
fal-lals  and  gramophones  and  a  piano  and  things.  A  great 
man  entirely  for  the  ladies.  I  have  to  put  my  foot  down  agin 
tea-parties  or  he'd  never  give  Father  Dunne  opposite — a 
studious  man — a  moment's  ease  with  his  books.  I'm  away 
to  the  back  here  myself,  behind  Father  Dunne,  out  of  the 
way  of  the  clatter." 

He  threw  open  the  door  of  a  shabby  little  room  and  bowed 
Kitty  in.  Though  the  window  was  open  there  was  a  strong 
odour  of  stale  tobacco  smoke.  An  old  pipe,  a  tobacco  box,  a 


Vocations  93 

match-box  and  ash-tray  stood  on  a  mahogany  table  near  the 
fireplace.  The  carpet  was  worn  to  the  thread.  Two  bundles 
of  papers  in  wire  files  and  a  calendar  were  the  only  orna- 
ments on  the  faded  yellow  wall  paper.  A  high,  standing 
desk  of  plain  deal,  furnished  with  a  penny  bottle  of  ink,  a 
pen,  a  ruler  and  a  tattered  sheet  of  ink-stained  blotting 
paper,  stood  in  front  of  the  uncurtained  window.  An  old 
glass- fronted  bookcase  was  hidden  away  in  the  darkest  cor- 
ner. Kitty  noted  every  detail :  the  few  stiff  chairs  along 
walls,  the  broken  coal  scuttle.  The  high  hard  arm-chair 
would  be  Father  Brady's  own.  He'd  give  the  comfortable 
leather  one  to  visitors.  Dr.  Thornton  often  sat  in  it !  What 
if  he  should  come  in  now  just  by  accident?  Of  course  she 
knew  it  wasn't  likely,  but  it  was  pleasant  to  feel  that  he 
might. 

"Won't  you  sit  down  there?"  the  priest  said  gently. 

She  slipped  off  one  of  her  gloves  so  as  to  feel  the  leather 
with  her  bare  hand.  She  nestled  back  so  that  the  chair 
should  touch  her  at  as  many  points  as  possible.  She  shut  her 
eyes  in  order  to  breathe  in  its  full  joy. 

"I  brought  you  in  here  that  we  might  be  less  public,"  the 
priest  said  in  a  tone  that  made  her  open  her  eyes  with  a  start. 
There  was  pain  in  it  and  pity.  He  was  leaning  forward  a 
little  in  his  chair.  The  light,  falling  sideways  on  his  eyes, 
showed  a  network  of  little  lines  under  the  lids  and  at  the 
sides.  All  the  freshness  seemed  to  have  gone  out  of  his 
face.  He  looked  tired  and  old.  Something  was  hurting  him. 
She  felt  sorry  for  him.  If  he  could  only  feel  as  she  felt,  to 
whom  even  the  cool  leather  pressing  against  her  arms  was 
a  joy! 

"It's  an  uncomfortable  sort  of  room  to  bring  a  young 
girl  into,  but  when  I'm  not  trapseing  about  the  streets  I'm 
out  tending  the  flowers.  I  seldom  sit  in  it,"  he  said,  with  a 
sigh,  closely  examining  the  tips  of  his  fingers. 

"You  wished  to  say  something  to  me?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"It's  a ,  great  year  entirely  for  the  roses,"  he  said,  and 
moved  the  tobacco  box  and  pipe  from  one  position  to  an- 
other. "They're  all  over  the " 


94  Vocations 

A  little  spasm  of  pain  shot  over  his  face.  He  pushed  the 
ash-tray  away  from  him  restlessly  and  sat  upright.  "I'm 
only  a  diddering  old  man  and  you're  a  brave  girl.  If  I  have 
to  pull  out  a  tooth  on  you,  you'll  bear  it,  won't  you?  And 
as  I  have  to  do  it,  I'd  better  do  it  straight  off  without  any 
beating  about  the  bush." 

She  gripped  the  corners  of  her  chair  with  her  fingers  and 
had  the  cold,  grating  feeling  in  her  blood  which  the  ap- 
proach of  the  dentist's  drill  always  gave  her.  There  was  no 
fear,  merely  an  uncomfortable  expectation  of  something  dis- 
agreeable. He  paused  and  looked  round  the  room  as  if  seek- 
ing inspiration  from  the  bare  walls. 

"Well?"  she  said,  with  a  smile. 

With  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  empty  grate,  he  said  tonelessly, 
"Dr.  Thornton  is  going  to  be  married  to  his  cousin  Daisy  in 
a  couple  of  weeks.  They're  just  within  the  forbidden  de- 
grees, but  I  have  the  dispensation  for  them  there  in  my  desk. 
They  were  only  waiting  for  an  appointment  he's  just  got 
at  the  Mater  Hospital  above  in  Dublin  where  they're  going 
to  live." 

He  pushed  his  hair  back  from  his  forehead  and  paused  as 
if  listening.  There  was  no  sound  but  the  chirp  of  birds 
through  the  open  window.  With  a  deep  sigh  he  looked  at 
her.  She  was  leaning  forward  in  her  chair,  her  hands  still 
gripping  the  arms,  the  smile  still  on  her  lips  which  had  fallen 
slightly  apart.  There  was  no  trace  of  colour  in  the  clear 
pallor  of  her  face.  Her  eyes  had  the  filmy  glazed  stare  of 
the  sleep-walker  and  seemed  to  look  through  him  and  beyond 
him. 

"It's  not  public  yet,  so  you'll  say  nothing  about  it,"  he 
said  helplessly. 

His  voice  seemed  to  wake  her.  The  strained  figure  re- 
laxed. A  warm  flush  suffused  her  face.  The  smile  deepened 
and  she  looked  at  him  eagerly. 

"What?"  she  murmured,  with  a  twitching  of  her  lips. 
She  passed  her  hand  over  her  forehead  and  pressed  her  eyes 
as  if  trying  to  remember.  "Say  nothing  about  it?  Of 


y  o  cations  95 

course  not,"  she  said,  with  a  feeble  smile.  "The  room  has 
got  so  hot,  don't  you  think?" 

"A  little  glass  of  wine  now,"  he  said  miserably.  "I  have 
some  in  the  bottom  of  the  bookcase,  and  glasses  and  all,  or 
soda  water?" 

"Winnie  will  be  waiting  for  me.  It  must  be  an  age  since 
I  came  in." 

She  held  on  to  the  edge  of  the  table  and  stood  up.  "It  is 
such  a  beautifully  cool  room.  And  the  view  through  the 
window — the  river  and  all  the  trees.  The  apples  are  getting 
red  already.  We  must  be  going,  mustn't  we?  They'll  be 
waiting  for  you  in  the  church." 

She  looked  with  a  half-frightened  stare  at  the  crushed 
rosebud  which  she  still  held  in  her  hand.  Her  fingers  closed 
over  it. 

"I  don't  think  I'll  go  to  confession  to-day  after  all,"  she 
said  apologetically. 

"And  why  would  you  ?  All  this'll  pass.  Everything  passes." 
He  held  open  the  door  for  her. 

"Everything  passes,"  she  said,  with  a  wan  smile. 

All  power  of  thought  seemed  to  have  gone  from  her.  She 
felt  as  if  all  life  had  been  emptied  out  of  her.  Empty  and 
hollow  like  a  drum.  "What  a  queer  feeling,"  she  murmured 
with  a  little  shudder.  That  was  Father  Burke's  room  and  the 
other  Father  Dunne's.  It  was  all  a  dream  about  Dr.  Thorn- 
ton. What  had  Father  Brady  called  it?  That  horrid  lawn- 
mower  was  grinding  out  her  soul.  Though  the  sun  was 
shining,  it  was  cold,  so  very  cold. 

The  priest  had  to  hurry  his  steps  to  keep  pace  with  her. 

"You'd  better  go  home  and  have  a  little  rest,"  he  said, 
holding  out  his  hand  when  they  reached  the  church  door. 

She  shook  it  listlessly  and  muttered,  "I'd  better  go  home 
and  have  a  little  rest." 

Half-way  to  the  gate  she  turned  round  and  looked  at  the 
church  clock.  Only  ten  minutes  to  twelve  and  she  had 
thought  it  must  be  nearly  night.  Winnie  was  still  in  the 
church.  Winnie  was  a  religious  girl  and  said  her  prayers. 
Prayers  and  prayers,  ever  so  many  of  them.  And  she  said 


96  Vocations 

no  extra  prayers.  That  was  why  she  was  so  miserable  and 
unhappy.  God  deserted  her  because  she  deserted  Him.  She 
must  pray,  pray.  She  turned  round  and  walked  rapidly 
towards  a  side  door  of  the  church.  Under  the  gallery,  near 
St.  Joseph's  altar,  where  there  was  no  confessional.  .  .  . 
It  would  be  quiet  there  and  she  could  pray. 

She  crept  noiselessly  into  a  dark  corner,  huddled  down 
over  the  back  of  a  pew  and  tried  to  smother  her  sobs  with 
her  arms.  The  world  was  nothing  but  wretchedness  and 
misery.  Prayer  was  no  good.  There  was  no  God  at  all, 
only  some  beast  who  tore  at  one's  heart. 


Chapter  3 

MRS.  CURTIN  wore  her  black  apron  as  a  con- 
cession to  the  shop;  though,  since  the  day 
of  Kitty's  birth,  the  shop  had  never  been  more 
remote  from  her  mind.  If  there  had  been  no 
other  cause  her  clothes  alone  would  have  accounted  for  her 
scant  attention  to  the  nice  weighing  of  tea ;  her  silk  petticoat, 
hitherto  reserved  for  twelve  o'clock  mass  and  the  more 
formal  visits  to  the  convent,  rustled  agreeably  beneath  her 
voluminous  black  satin  dress;  her  Sunday  switch  and  her 
best  tortoiseshell  combs  adorned  her  hair  which  towered  up, 
a  formidable  headdress,  over  her  crown ;  heavy  gold  pen- 
dants, barbaric  in  their  splendour,  weighted  down  the  lobes 
of  her  ears  and  threatened,  at  every  movement  of  her  head, 
to  seek  a  more  secure  resting-place  on  her  broad  shoulders. 
Respect  for  her  corns  forbade  the  wearing  of  her  best  boots 
in  the  shop,  but  her  comfortable  elastic-sided  slippers  of  soft 
leather,  hidden  by  the  counter,  gave  her  peace  of  body  with 
only  a  slight  sacrifice  of  her  aesthetic  sense;  indeed,  by  a 
little  manoeuvring  of  her  long  skirt,  they  were  invisible  even 
to  visitors  to  the  snuggery.  Her  face  glistened  with  soap 
and  contentment.  Her  gift  of  Winnie  to  God  had  never 
been  in  any  real  doubt;  but  she  was  a  careful  woman  who 
graduated  the  extent  of  customers'  credit  to  a  pound  and 
preferred  regular  payments  in  full  to  running  accounts,  and 
her  own  debt  to  God  had  for  years,  during  retreats  and 
missions,  and  even  at  less  searching  times  of  spiritual  stock- 
taking, burthened  her  conscience.  To-night  at  ten  minutes 
to  nine,  so  as  to  give  ample  time  to  all  the  nuns  to  kiss 
Winnie  on  both  cheeks  before  night  prayers  at  nine,  her 
first-born  was  to  be  deposited  in  the  front  reception  room 
of  the  convent,  with  a  last  worldly  good-bye.  It  was  not 
exactly  the  payment  in  full  she  had  intended,  for  Kitty  was 
97 


9£  Vocations 

still  to  be  paid  in.  But  there  had  lately  been  such  cumula- 
tive evidence  of  Divine  favour  for  Kitty  that  a  clear  receipt 
was  as  good  as  in  her  pocket.  Winnie's  sudden  announce- 
ment of  "going  in,"  with  its  threat  to  the  upsetting  of  her 
plans,  had  at  first  rushed  her  off  her  feet,  but  she  soon  saw 
in  it  a  direct  manifestation  of  the  Divine  will.  It  coincided 
almost  to  an  hour  with  Kitty's  separate  and  independent 
outbursts  against  Joe  Duggan  and  was  followed  by  a  per- 
sistent moodiness  in  her  younger  daughter  which  Sister  Eula- 
lie,  after  anxious  consultation,  interpreted  as  final  disgust 
with  the  world,  though  as  yet  only  in  its  primary  stage. 
Winnie's  entrance,  with  its  consequent  loneliness  for  Kitty, 
would  be  the  torch  that  should  set  the  tow  afire  and  bring 
Kitty  at  last  to  God.  Yet  that  no  accident  might  intervene, 
a  special  novena  was  to  be  begun  by  the  nuns  within  a  few 
minutes  of  Winnie's  arrival  for  the  purpose  of  fanning  the 
flame. 

As  Johanna  leant  her  heavy  weight  on  the  counter,  her 
arms  carefully  resting  on  a  quire  of  white  tea-paper,  she  felt 
that  God  was  beaming  on  her.  She  thanked  Him  fervently 
for  fixing  Winnie's  departure  on  a  slack  day  when  she  could 
give  way  to  pleasant  thoughts  without  any  neglect  of  busi- 
ness. Out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye  she  could  see  the  two- 
shop-boys  chatting  idly  behind  the  whiskey  counter.  She 
checked  a  frown  and  smiled.  They  well  knew,  the  ruffians, 
that  there  was  tea  and  sugar  to  be  weighed  in  a  slack  hour. 
Still,  poor  fellows,  let  them  enjoy  the  day  that  was  in  it. 
If  Tom  himself  would  only  not  be  coming  in  and  out  with 
a  worried  face  on  him  like  a  clucking  hen.  Men  had  no  re- 
ligion in  them  at  bottom  and  one'd  think  it  was  to  the  scaf- 
fold Winnie  was  going  from  the  looks  of  him.  When  Kitty 
went  he'd  be  in  a  tantrum  entirely.  Still,  the  worst  of  his 
tempers  was  no  more  than  a  squall  on  the  river  and  God'd 
be  sure  to  give  her  the  grace  to  cool  him.  If  he  had  an  eye 
in  his  head  he'd  have  seen  at  dinner-time  how  the  wind  was 
blowing  with  Kitty ;  but  he  was  always  a  narrow  man  that 
couldn't  see  much  outside  his  own  business.  More  like  a 
corpse  Kitty  was  than  a  living  being;  and  she  didn't  even 


Vocations  99 

look  at  the  toothsome  victuals  Peggy  spread  as  a  send-off 
for  Winnie,  let  alone  taste  anything.  It  was  God  working 
His  will  on  her ;  and  if  she'd  last  the  night  before  throwing 
herself  at  His  feet  it  was  the  most  she'd  do.  The  ways  of 
God  were  wonderful  surely.  If  Winnie  was  a  little  trying 
itself  for  the  last  few  days,  with  all  the  airs  and  conse- 
quences she  put  on,  she  was  well  within  her  rights  and  she 
as  good  as  on  the  doorstep  of  the  convent  already.  And  it 
would  only  be  for  a  few  hours  more  in  any  case.  ...  It 
was  very  right-minded  of  the  nuns  to  pay  herself  the  compli- 
ment (out  of  respect  for  her  devoted  piety,  was  what  Sister 
Eulalie  said)  of  breaking  the  rules  and  letting  Winnie  enter 
so  late  at  night.  The  like  was  never  done  before  as  long  as 
she  could  remember,  and  people  couldn't  help  but  remark 
on  it.  She  was  a  humble  woman,  God  knew,  but  He  had 
blessed  her  out  of  the  ordinary  and  she  knew  her  deserts 
where  He  was  concerned.  Joe  Duggan  might  handle  as 
much  of  the  money  as  Tom  liked.  He'd  take  good  care  of 
that  so  long  as  any  of  his  own  was  mixed  up  with  it;  and 
he  might  make  it  grow  for  God  faster  even  than  Tom  would. 
But  the  handling  of  a  daughter  of  hers  he'd  never  have.  She 
sighed  at  the  interruption  of  her  dreams  by  the  entrance  of 
a  customer,  but  she  stood  upright,  her  usual  business  smile 
on  her  lips. 

"It's  you  that's  looking  fine,  Mrs.  MacMahon,"  she  said 
as  they  shook  hands.  "And  what  can  I  be  doing  for  you 
to-day  ?" 

"I  can  return  you  the  compliment,  ma'am,"  Mrs.  Mac- 
Mahon said,  with  an  acid  smile  on  her  thin,  sullen  face. 
"A  pound  of  tea  and  a  quarter  stone  of  sugar  and  the  other 
things  as  usual." 

She  gave  a  hostile  look  at  Mrs.  Curtin's  earrings,  and 
added,  "It's  only  the  shopkeepers  is  making  any  money  these 
times." 

"Hear  that  now,"  Mrs.  Curtin  said  pleasantly,  "and  you 
with  a  daughter  a  nun  up  in  Stephen's  Green  and  another 
over  with  the  Dominicans,  praying  for  you  at  your  own  door 
as  one  might  say.  And  to  tell  me  that  a  big  farmer  is  mak- 


100  Vocations 

ing  nothing.  Smell  that  now,"  holding  a  packet  of  tea  under 
Mrs.  MacMahon's  nose,  "and  tell  me  where  the  profit  is  in 
it  at  the  price." 

Mrs.  MacMahon  sniffed,  and  said  ungraciously,  "I've 
smelt  worse,  ma'am.  By  their  own  account  shopkeepers 
ought  to  be  in  the  poor-house — they're  that  fond  of  giving 
away  things  for  nothing.  And  they  sending  their  daughters 
to  St.  Margaret's  and  all!  It's  hard  set  poor  farmers  are 
to  lift  their  eyes  as  high  as  the  Lorettos  even  with  the  run 
of  five  or  six  hundred  acres." 

"They're  very  decent  nuns,  I'm  told,"  Mrs.  Curtin  said 
complacently.  "I  hear  it  said  they  take  in  likely  young  girls 
cheap  that  have  the  makings  of  teachers  in  'em.  Did  you 
say  currants  only,  ma'am?" 

"And  raisins,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  MacMahon  angrily. 
"Thank  God,  we're  not  drained  as  dry  as  that  yet,  seeing  the 
price  of  'em  and  all.  And  we  never  docked  a  daughter  of 
ours  of  a  penny  that  was  her  due  because  God  gave  her  the 
brains  which  isn't  a  gift  that  He  scatters  everywhere.  Lizzie 
got  the  same  going  into  the  Green  that  Mary  Kate  took  into 
the  Dominicans,  and  the  whole  world  knows  the  lowest  tariff 
there.  Cheap,  indeed!  If  we  wanted  to  scrape  on  'em, 
wasn't  there  Mercy  convents  for  them  to  go  into?" 

"Beyond  at  Lissakelly,  no  doubt.  I  think  that's  all  now, 
ma'am."  Mrs.  Curtin  moved  parcels  from  side  to  side  on 
the  counter,  murmuring,  "Tea,  sugar,  Van  Houten,  raisins. 
.  .  .  But  there's  Mercy  convents  and  Mercy  convents.  You 
never  can  believe  a  word  you  hear,  but  I  did  hear  it  said 
that  Lizzie  made  a  try  for  Drumbawn  above  and  that  for 
one  reason  or  other  it  didn't  come  off.  If  the  side-car  is  at 
the  door  one  of  the  men'll  take  out  them  things  for  you, 
ma'am." 

"Anyway,  they  went  in  of  their  own  free  will,"  said  Mrs. 
MacMahon,  with  an  increase  of  heat  to  cover  her  change 
of  position.  "And  that's  more  than  is  said  of  some  other 
people's  daughters  that  I  know.  Good  evening  to  you, 
ma'am,"  she  added  triumphantly  at  the  evident  signs  in  Mrs. 
Curtin's  face  that  the  blow  had  gone  home. 


V  ocations  101 

A  gleam  in  Mrs.  Curtin's  eyes,  however,  made  her  retire 
quickly,  with  a  muttered,  "I'll  send  in  my  own  man  for  the 
things." 

"That  was  hitting  you  below  the  belt  and  no  mistake," 
Tom  Curtin  said  gruffly  from  his  desk  behind  the  screen. 
"Oh,  you're  there,  are  you?"  Johanna  said,  biting  her  lip. 
"The  jealousy  of  that  woman  bangs  Banagher!  To  hint  at 
the  like  of  that  to  me.  There's  not  one  in  the  whole  barony'd 
say  it  or  think  it  either  but  herself.  I  wouldn't  send  a 
daughter  of  mine  into  the  Dominicans,  not  if  you  paid  me 
for  it.  And  them  Lorettos  live  on  their  pickings  out  of 
examinations  and  the  like.  You  should  hear  the  St.  Mar- 
garet's nuns  on  them  and  how  they  demean  themselves, 
sending  their  girls  in  for  the  Intermediate.  And  with  a  bill 
agin  her  as  long  as  my  arm,  too !  I'll  send  it  in  to  her  this 
very  night." 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Curtin  sternly.  "I 
only  wish  it  was  ten  times  as  long  and  then  we  might  come 
to  terms  about  that  slice  of  James  MacMahon's  land  that's 
spoiling  the  look  of  mine  the  way  it  butts  into  it." 

"There's  something  in  that,  to  be  sure.  Still,  I'll  find  some 
way  of  getting  back  on  the  woman.  I  who  wouldn't  inter- 
fere with  the  will  of  God,  not  for  my  own  weight  in  gold." 

"Winnie  is  very  miserable,  anyway,  up  there  now,"  Cur- 
tin said,  with  a  gloomy  wave  of  his  hand  towards  the  ceil- 
ing. "She's  crying  her  eyes  out." 

"She'll  be  as  happy  as  a  queen  in  the  hands  of  God  in  a 
couple  of  hours,"  said  Johanna  cheerfully.  "She  was  bent 
on  the  convent  all  her  life.  'I'll  go  in  for  the  Assumption,' 
she  said  to  me,  as  firm  and  as  bold  as  you  like  it,  and  noth- 
ing that  I  could  say  or  do'd  stop  her.  If  she's  crying  itself 
I'm  sure  it's  because  it's  glad  she  is— it's  a  way  young  girls 
have.  But  I  won't  have  anyone  say  I  had  hand,  act,  or  part 
in  it.  It  was  all  God's  doing." 

"What  was  all  God's  doing?"  Father  Brady  asked  grimly, 
from  the  doorway. 

"Oh,  Father  Brady."    Johanna  was  somewhat  abashed. 


102  Vocations 

"It's  you  took  the  start  out  of  me.  But  sure  no  one  is  more 
welcome.  It's  a  cure  for  sore  eyes  to  see  you." 

"How  are  you,  Mr.  Curtin?  What's  all  God's  will?"  the 
priest  repeated,  as  he  shook  hands. 

"Talking  about  Winnie,  we  were,  and  how  God  is  taking 
her  to-night."  Mrs.  Curtin  gave  a  warning  look  at  her 
husband. 

"I  didn't  know  the  poor  girl  was  dead  yet?  I  thought  ye 
were  only  putting  her  into  the  convent?" 

"It's  one  and  the  same  thing,  I  have  my  doubts,"  Tom 
Curtin  returned  moodily. 

"You  and  your  long  face."  Mrs.  Curtin  shook  at  him  a 
half-playful  finger,  but  with  the  light  of  battle  in  her  eyes. 
"A  person'd  think  it  was  murdered  the  girl  was  going  to  be 
instead  of  taking  a  front  place  on  the  outskirts  of  heaven. 
If  I  had  her  chance,  and  I  a  young  girl,  I'd  have  lepped 
at  it." 

"You  took  good  care  to  leap  at  Tom  Curtin  instead,"  the 
priest  said. 

"Troth,  she  did  that,  and  it's  little  signs  of  the  convent 
I  saw  in  her  then.  You  see,  your  reverence,  she  was  free  to 
follow  her  own  devices  and  had  no  good  mother  to  guide 
her,"  Curtin  said  with  a  grin.  "If  she'd  only  keep  her  hands 
off  Kitty,"  he  added  gloomily,  "I  wouldn't  mind  so  much. 
Though  from  my  heart  out  I  pity  that  poor  girl  above  that's 
going  into  jail  this  night.  She's  that  miserable  she'd  move 
the  heart  in  a  stone." 

"I  was  thinking  of  the  convent  long  before  ever  I  saw 
you,"  Johanna  said,  tossing  her  head. 

"It's  little  you  thought  of  it  after  you  saw  me,  anyway. 
I  just  threw  down  the  ball  and  you  whipt  it  up  at  the  first 
bound,"  said  Curtin,  with  an  admiring  look  at  her  coiffure. 

"It's  romancing  he  is,  Father  Pat,"  she  said  hastily,  vexa- 
tion and  pleasure  in  her  flushed  face.  "Come  away  into  the 
snuggery,  your  reverence.  If  he  must  be  raking  up  our 
private  affairs,  it's  better  he'd  do  it  there  than  across  the 
counter  in  the  face  of  the  whole  world,  though  it's  lucky  it's 
a  slack  day  with  no  one  at  all  within  earshot." 


Vocations  103 

She  went  round  by  the  desk,  and  held  the  snuggery  door 
open  for  the  priest.  "One'd  think  from  hearing  him  talk 
that  I  put  pressure  on  the  girl.  Take  the  arm-chair,  your 
reverence.  But  sorra  bit  of  it.  'I'm  going  into  the  convent 
on  the  eve  of  the  Assumption/  she  said.  'You're  doing 
nothing  of  the  kind,'  I  said,  fairly  flummuxed  at  the  sudden- 
ness of  it.  But  there  she  stood  as  firm  as  a  rock,  with  that 
stubborn  look  on  her  face  that  she  has  from  her  father.  And 
I  could  do  nothing  less  than  give  way  to  the  grace  of  God." 

"That's  the  sort  of  truth  that  they  hoodwink  the  magis- 
trates with  below  in  the  court-house,"  Curtin  said.  "Sorra 
word  of  a  lie  in  it  as  far  as  it  goes,  but  you'd  have  to  look 
close  before  you'd  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  truth  in  it.  You 
might  tell  his  reverence  what  you  were  beating  into  the 
child's  head  from  the  day  you  suckled  her." 

"Is  it  to  hamper  the  grace  of  God  you'd  have  me?" 
Johanna  enquired  indignantly.  "I  put  no  obstacles  in  her 
path  to  God.  If  that's  the  sin  you  want  to  accuse  me  of 
then  I'm  willing  to  stand  my  trial  on  it  before  God  and  his 
reverence." 

"It's  not  what  you  didn't  do,  but  what  you  did,"  Curtin 
said,  with  a  helpless  look.  "Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  of  a 
woman  arguing,  your  reverence?  It'll  be  me  that  wanted 
the  girl  to  be  a  nun  next." 

"There  was  every  sign  of  it/'  said  Johanna  serenely,  fix- 
ing the  folds  of  her  satin  skirt  so  as  to  cover  her  slippers. 
"The  sort  of  life  that  was  good  enough  for  me,  wasn't  good 
enough  for  your  daughters.  You  wouldn't  let  them  stand  in 
the  shop,  and  there  was  no  one  in  the  whole  town  good 
enough  for  'em,  and  you  were  set  on  sending  'em  to  a  grand 
school." 

"The  unfairness  of  it,  your  reverence!"  Curtin  despair- 
ingly threw  up  his  hands.  "I  gave  in  to  her  at  every  turn. 
I  might  have  wanted  to  keep  them  a  trifle  select — not  to 
mix  with  riff-raff  and  the  like,"  he  added,  squaring  his  shoul- 
ders, swelling  out  his  chest  and  pursing  his  lips  with  an  air 
of  importance. 

"He's  the  proudest  man  in  the  town  of  Drumbawn,"  Mrs. 


104  Vocations 

Curtin  said,  with  complacency.  "And  I'm  sure  there's  no 
man  has  a  better  right  to  be  with  what  he  has  made  of  him- 
self and  all.  But  you  see  how  it  is,  your  reverence.  If  he 
made  the  girls  look  down  on  the  town,  where  else  had  they 
to  look  to  but  to  God  ?  Not  that  I  want  to  be  unfair  to  him, 
for  they  had  a  natural  turn  that  way  from  the  very  start. 
All  he  did  at  the  most  was  to  encourage  them.  And  it's 
proud  he  ought  to  be  to  be  the  means  of  carrying  out  the 
will  of  God." 

"It  was  a  happy  day  for  your  reverence  when  you 
escaped  a  wife,"  Curtin  said,  with  a  frown  and  a  helpless 
sigh.  "There's  no  straighter  woman  of  business  from  here 

to  Dublin,  but  let  her  once  get  on  religion "  He  shook 

his  head  gloomily.  "But  sure  you  know  what  they  are  there 
better  than  myself.  A  rock  of  sense,  too,  in  everything  but 
that.  I  often  wanted  her  to  go  to  confession  to  yourself 
that  you  might  lay  the  rod  on  her.  But,  not  she.  It  must 
be  that  dandy,  Father  Burke,  that's  more  of  a  young  lady 
than  a  priest,  may  God  forgive  me;  or  some  missioner  that 
draws  a  string  of  women  after  him  by  flattering  them  into 
thinking  they're  saints.  She's  been  dinning  the  convent  into 
them  children  since  they  were  in  long  clothes;  and  all  she 
has  for  it  is  Winnie  in  hysterics  above  stairs  this  minute. 
Kitty  has  more  sense  in  her,  thank  God." 

"Poor  Winnie  is  that  happy  that  she  must  let  of  a  little 
of  it  in  a  good  cry  now  and  again,"  said  Johanna  placidly. 
"In  all  your  born  days,  Father  Brady,  did  you  ever  hear  a 
woman  worse  misread  ?  And  by  her  own  husband,  too — not 
but  they're  the  worst  when  the  blind  fit  takes  'em.  They " 

"Winnie  is  done  for,  anyway,"  Curtin  interrupted.  "I 
tried  to  reason  with  her  after  dinner,  but  whatever  little  wits 
she  has  are  turned  in  her  head.  I  offered  her  everything — 
to  send  her  to  the  sea  or  to  the  Spa ;  and  to  give  her  as  much 
freedom  as  she'd  like  to  have,  no  matter  what  her  mother'd 
say  or  do.  But  no,  nothing'd  do  but  the  convent;  though 
she  cried  her  heart  out  over  it  like  a  flustered  child  over  a 
bottle  that  it  didn't  want." 

"And  I'm  driving  her  in?"  Johanna  derided  him.    "And 


Vocations  105 

she  going  in  with  her  eyes  wide  open !"  She  shot  a  hostile 
look  at  her  husband.  "Why  don't  you  tell  the  priest  some  of 
your  own  good  deeds?  Maybe  I'm  driving  Kitty,  too,  into 
marrying  Joe  Duggan?" 

"You  did  your  best  to  drive  her  into  the  convent,  but  you 
failed  in  that,"  Tom  said,  with  a  heavy  frown.  "But  haven't 
we  bothered  the  priest  enough  with  our  private  affairs?"  he 
added  uneasily.  "He'll  think  we're  always  fighting,  though 
we  never  had  a  word  between  us,  except  on  the  head  of 
them  girls." 

He  gave  his  wife  an  ingratiating  smile,  and  said  to  the 
priest,  with  forced  cheerfulness: 

"You  never  take  a  holiday  at  all,  Father  Pat.  A  quiet 
week  at  the  sea  now  would  do  you  good." 

"A  quiet  week  at  home'd  do  me  better."  The  priest 
examined  a  crack  in  the  side  of  his  right  shoe.  "But  my 
fools  of  parishioners  never  let  me  have  it.  Well,  well. 
What's  all  this  about  Kitty?" 

Curtin  eased  his  throat  by  pulling  hard  at  his  stiff  collar. 
He  looked  severely  but  a  little  doubtfully  at  his  wife,  who 
seemed  to  be  engrossed  in  smoothing  her  apron,  the  remnant 
of  a  smile  on  her  tightly  shut  lips.  He  coughed,  but  she 
didn't  look  up.  He  cleared  his  throat  and  said  nervously, 
in  his  most  pompous  accent: 

"I'm  all  against  this  driving  girls  into  convents,  Father 
Brady.  Though  you're  a  priest  itself,  I  know  you  for  a  man 
of  sense,  and  you're  sure  to  agree  with  me.  Still,  if  they 
want  to,  I  say,  in  the  name  of  God,  let  'em." 

"You  say  that  then?"  Johanna  exclaimed. 

"Of  course  I  say  that,"  he  replied,  gaining  courage.  "I'm 
never  the  man  to  stand  in  the  way  of  the  will  of  God.  But 
it's  nowhere  laid  down  that  every  young  girl  must  be  a  nun. 
Common  sense  is  agin  it,  and  the  population,  and  the  like, 
and  a  young  girl's  nature.  Some  fools  of  nuns'd  like  to  put 
an  end  to  the  whole  world,  your  reverence,  and  the  same 
maggot  has  got  into  Johanna's  head,  for  her  own  family  at 
least.  It  reminds  me  of  the  king  in  the  readamadasy  who 
thought  he  could  stop  the  sea  from  rising  by  lifting  his  hand. 


106  Vocations 

It's  agin  human  nature,  I  say.  The  only  fair  thing  by  a 
girl  is  to  give  her  a  chance  to  get  married.  The  sight  of 
Winnie  up  there  now'll  make  me  regret  to  my  dying  day 
that  she  hadn't  a  fair  chance.  She  was  driven  into  the  con- 
vent like  a  pig  you'd  be  driving  to  market." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  the  like,"  Johanna  said,  appealing  to 
Heaven  through  the  ceiling.  "She's  so  bent  on  the  convent 
that  the  priest  himself  couldn't  head  her  off  it  no  matter 
how  hard  he  tried." 

"Because  between  ye  all  ye  have  put  a  warp  in  the  poor 
girl's  mind,"  said  Curtin  angrily. 

"If  you  will  talk  of  unwilling  pigs  it  must  be  your  daugh- 
ter Kitty  is  in  your  mind.  And  it's  yourself  is  the  cruel 
driver,  and  you  trying  to  force  her  to  marry  Joe  Duggan," 
Johanna  cried. 

"Nonsense,  woman.  Is  it  me  to  use  force?  I  onyl  put 
common  sense  and  sound  reason  before  her.  And  as  I  know 
Kitty  is  no  fool,  I  naturally  expect  her  to  follow  my  advice." 

"There  you  have  him  and  his  freedom  now  in  a  nutshell, 
Father  Pat.  The  only  man  he'd  trust  with  his  business  and 
his  money  is  Joe  Duggan.  The  only  man  he'd  consent  to 
Kitty  marrying  is  Joe  Duggan.  There's  freedom  for  you — 
a  scarecrow  of  a  man  that'd  frighten  away  any  girl  who 
wasn't  in  the  last  ditch  of  desperation.  No  wonder  Kitty'd 
be  reduced  to  a  thread  the  way  he's  nagging  at  her.  It's  to 
fall  in  a  faint  I  thought  she  would  every  minute  to-day  at 
dinner-time,  and  little  wonder  with  the  thought  of  spending 
her  life  with  that  man  and  her  heart  dragging  her  in  the 
opposite  direction  to  God  and  His  holy  convent." 

"And  you  nag  her  with  the  convent,  I  suppose,  eh?" 
Father  Brady  said  grimly. 

"I  don't  blacken  it  in  the  poor  girl's  eyes  like  some  other 
people,"  said  Mrs.  Curtin,  with  an  angry  nod  towards  her 
husband.  "All  my  life  I've  been  an  obedient  slave  to  that 
man  there.  T  do  my  dutv  by  him  whether  I  think  he's  right 
or  wrone.  Don't  T  ask  Joe  Dug^an  UD  to  tea  and  trv  to 
force  him  down  the  throat  of  that  poor  little  girl?  But 
that's  what  a  wife  has  to  expect  seemingly  from  the  best  of 


Vocations  107 

husbands.  I  praise  Joe  Duggan  to  her  to  the  limit  of 
telling  a  lie,  till  the  look  of  distress  on  her  face  is  a  stab  in 
the  heart  to  me.  But  though  I  can  be  true  to  Tom  to  the 
point  of  sacrificing  my  daughter,  I  can't  be  entirely  false  to 
my  God.  Run  down  the  convent  I  will  not,  and  I  knowing 
her  heart  is  set  on  it." 

"It's  wonderful  what  we  know  about  everyone  but  our- 
selves," the  priest  frowned.  "So  it's  a  nice  kind  of  monster 
you  are,  to  be  sure,  Tom  Curt  in.  What  have  you  to  say 
to  all  this?" 

"It's  women,  women,"  Curtin  muttered,  with  a  stupefied 
look  at  Johanna.  "Not  till  you're  taken  out  feet  foremost 
will  you  be  able  to  plumb  the  depth  of  unfairness  in  the  best 
of  them.  It's  all  a  bad  dream  of  Johanna's.  I  don't  want 
to  make  the  little  girl  miserable.  Beyond  a  word  in  season, 
I  don't  want  to  push  Joe  Duggan  on  her.  I'm  as  sure  as  I'm 
sitting  here  that  he's  the  only  man  for  her,  but  I  won't  put 
what  you'd  call  force  on  her.  If  she  doesn't  see  the  good 
in  him  to-day,  with  a  little  help  she'll  see  it  to-morrow.  He 
has  a  heart  of  gold  and  a  sound  business  head,  though  I 
could  wish  him  a  better  outward  covering.  But  what  is  a 
face,  after  all,  to  a  sensible  woman?" 

Mrs.  Curtin  sniffed  her  contempt. 

"The  long  and  short  of  it,  then,"  Father  Brady  said 
briskly,  "is  that  neither  of  you  want  to  force  the  girl  to  do 
anything,  and  that's  as  it  ought  to  be.  She's  to  go  into  the 
convent  or  stay  out  of  it,  marry  Joe  Duggan  or  not  marry 
him,  or  marry,  within  reason,  of  course,  any  other  man  she 
sets  her  heart  on." 

Both  Curtin  and  his  wife  nodded  a  doubtful  and  reserved 
approval  of  the  priest's  first  sentence.  By  the  time  he  fin- 
ished speaking  they  were  both  staring  with  hostility  at  the 
polished  table. 

"Eh?  That's  it,  isn't  it?"  said  Father  Brady,  looking 
from  one  to  the  other. 

"A  girl  has  a  right  to  please  her  father  in  the  man  she 
marries,"  Mrs.  Curtin  said,  with  a  frown. 


108  V  ocations 

"Excepting  Joe  Duggan,  who's  the  only  man  he'll  let  her 
marry !" 

"A  man  must  look  to  his  little  business,  and  I  know  it'd 
be  safe  with  him,"  Curtin  said  doggedly. 

"There  ye  sit  now  the  most  obstinate  pair  in  the  town  of 
Drumbawn,"  said  the  little  priest  fiercely.  "If  I  was  to  give 
ye  your  due,  I'd  call  ye  a  pair  of  wicked  sinners." 

"I  go  to  morning  Mass  and  do  my  duty  regular  as  the 
clock."  Mrs.  Curtin  resentfully  took  a  handkerchief  from 
under  her  apron. 

"I  must  say  I'm  surprised  at  this — this  outbreak,"  Curtin 
said,  with  dignity.  "I  may  be  a  little — well,  maybe,  negli- 
gent in  my  own  duties,  but  the  whole  town  knows  what  a 
shining  example  Johanna  is.  I  must  say,  Father  Brady,  I 
don't  understand  it." 

"Thank  you,  Tom,"  said  Mrs.  Curtin,  making  a  display 
of  the  handkerchief.  "If  my  parish  priest  misunderstands 
me  itself  I  always  have  my  good  husband  to  fall  back  on." 

"The  last  thing  I'd  ever  accuse  either  of  ye  of  being  is 
a  fool,  though  I'm  strongly  temped  to  do  it  this  minute," 
Father  Brady  remarked,  with  a  shrug.  "I've  know  you, 
Tom  Curtin,  since  you  first  set  foot  in  the  town  and  Jo- 
hanna long  before.  Ye  know  how  to  run  a  shop — none  bet- 
ter. And  I  admire  and  respect  ye  for  it.  And  I  hope  noth- 
ing'll  ever  come  across  the  feeling  of  friendship  I  have  for 
ye  both.  But  not  if  ye  headed  the  list  of  Christmas  and 
Easter  offerings  twenty  times  as  generously  as  ye  do,  would 
I  keep  my  mouth  shut  when  I  think  it  right  to  open  it.  I 
ought  to  have  done  so  long  before,  and  I  wouldn't  doubt 
but  the  bulk  of  the  harm  is  done  now.  Ye  have  hurt  both 
of  them  little  girls — likely  for  life.  There's  no  use  in  lift- 
ing your  eyebrows  or  throwing  up  your  hands  about  it.  You 
can  see  it  yourself,  Tom  Curtin,  clear  enough  in  regard  to 
Winnie.  Johanna  says  the  child's  vocation  is  the  work  of 
God.  Vocation,  inagh!  And  where  does  God  come  into  it 
at  all,  unless  Johanna  carries  Him  round  in  her  pocket  to 
work  her  will  for  her?  Blasphemy,  I  call  it,  helped  out  by 
your  vanity  and  pride  of  purse,  Tom  Curtin.  It  is  mostly, 


Vocations  109 

no  doubt,  Johanna's  fault;  but  you  can't  escape  from  the 
blame  yourself,  giving  your  daughter  a  foolish  bringing  up 
that  made  her  dissatisfied  with  her  home  without  giving  her 
mind  anything  real  to  grip  on.  I  wouldn't  misname  a  good 
word  by  calling  it  education.  She  thinks  she  has  a  call  to 
the  convent.  She  may  or  may  not;  but  she's  no  more  fit 
to  judge  than  a  child  in  arms.  And  no  one  else  can  judge 
for  her.  Anyhow,  she's  going  in — and  that's  harm  enough 
for  the  both  of  you  for  one  lifetime.  A  young  girl  that  has 
never  waked  up  to  the  meaning  of  life.  Let  us  hope  that  she 
won't  end  by  cursing  ye  both." 

"I  never  heard  the  like,  never,  never."  Johanna  was  weep- 
ing freely,  but  with  a  steely  glitter  in  her  eyes.  "My  con- 
science is  as  clear  as  a  well  of  spring  water.  And  every 
confessor  that  ever  I  had  lavished  praise  on  me  for  the  way 
I  was  bringing  them  girls  up.  A  model  I  was  to  all  the 
women  of  the  world,  Father  GafTney,  the  Passionist,  said. 
And  to  be  called  out  of  my  name  by  my  own  parish  priest 
is  more  than  flesh  and  blood  can  bear.  Can't  you  tell  his 
reverence  he's  maligning  me,  Tom,  even  if  he's  a  priest 
itself?" 

"Nonsense,  woman.  You're  too  thin-skinned."  Curtin 
pursed  his  lips  doubtfully.  "I  think  his  reverence  is  mistaken 
in  some  things.  'Purse-proud'  and  'vain'  are  hard  words 
now.  All  I  wanted  was  to  keep  the  girls  a  bit  select.  But 
there's  a  lot  of  truth  in  what  the  priest  says.  I  always 
thought  you  were  pushing  'em  too  hard  into  the  convent, 
Johanna.  It  was  agin  nature.  And  that's  why  I'm  deter- 
mined to  give  Kitty  her  freedom." 

"If  you  don't  leave  that  poor  girl  alone,  both  of  ye,  ye 
may  give  her  her  death,"  said  the  priest.  "For  God's  sake, 
try  to  realize  that  a  girl  of  her  age  has  a  mind  and  a  will  and 
feelings  of  her  own.  She  isn't  like  Winnie,  all  on  the 
surface.  There's  some  depth  in  her ;  though  she's  as  ignor- 
ant of  herself  and  the  world  as  ye  have  done  your  best  to 
make  her.  Still,  St.  Margaret's,  though  it  has  left  its  mark 
on  her,  hasn't  crushed  all  the  life  out  of  her.  You  say  it's 
agin  nature,  Tom,  to  make  a  girl  a  nun  who  doesn't  want  it. 


110  Vocations 

It's  just  as  much  agin  nature  to  try  and  marry  her  to  a  man 
she  doesn't  want.  Not  that  she'd  give  in  to  either  of  you, 
and  more  power  to  her  for  it.  But  ye  might  easily  add  the 
last  straw  to  her  misery  by  worrying  her  any  more,  and  she 
walking  the  town  like  a  ghost  this  day.  How  would  you 
like,  Johanna,  to  be  forced  into  the  convent  the  day  you 
wanted  to  marry  Tom  here?  Or  you,  Tom,  to  be  driven  to 
marry  a  girl  you  disliked  instead  of  Johanna?  Try  and  re- 
member that  your  children  are  flesh  and  blood  the  same  as 
yourselves  and  not  coins  or  chattels  to  be  invested  for  your 
own  selfish  ends.  Give  the  girl  her  freedom,  in  God's  name, 
and  try  and  take  her  out  of  herself.  Show  her  the  world  a 
bit  and  let  her  choose  for  herself.  As  likely  as  not  she'll 
choose  wrong,  but  then,  at  least,  she  can't  blame  her  father 
and  mother  all  through  her  life  for  her  misfortunes." 

"That's  hard  doctrine,  Father  Pat,"  Curtin  said,  in  a 
worried  tone.  "I  know  the  man  is  the  best  man  she's  ever 
likely  to  get." 

"If  you  don't  throw  him  at  her  head  she  might  even  see 
that.  Give  her  the  chance  you  gave  yourself.  It's  she's  got 
to  marry  him  and  put  up  with  him,  and  not  you.  In  God's 
name  let  her  choose  her  burthen  of  her  own  free  will." 

"I  never  intended  to  force  her.  I  laid  it  down  with  Mike 
Duggan  that  she  was  to  be  free  to  choose.  But  it's  danger- 
ous to  give  young  girls  with  all  their  ignorance  of  the  world 
so  much  freedom  as  all  that.  How  am  I  to  know  but  she'd 
refuse  Joe,  and  I've  advanced  him  money  already?" 

"You  must  risk  that,  I'm  afraid — unless  you  want  the 
girl's  death  at  your  door,"  Father  Brady  said,  with  a  shrug. 

"And  Johanna'll  promise  him  a  fair  run — no  working  on 
Kitty  for  the  convent  in  the  meantime?"  Curtin  said  doubt- 
fully. 

"I  never  interfere  between  either  of  the  girls  and  their 
God."  Mrs.  Curtin  calmly  replaced  her  handkerchief.  "Am 
I  to  understand  then,  that  I'm  not  to  push  Joe  Duggan  on 
the  poor  child  any  more?"  she  added,  with  a  resentful  look 
at  Father  Brady. 

"Take  her  up  to  Bray  for  a  change  of  air.    But  let  her  be, 


Vocations  111 

both  of  ye,  or  you'll  have  me  on  your  tracks,"  the  little  priest 
said  with  smiling  fierceness  as  he  rose  to  leave. 

Johanna's  and  Tom's  eyes  met  for  a  moment  in  a  com- 
mon, indignant  look. 

"It'll  be  as  your  reverence  says,"  Tom  said,  shaking  hands 
with  the  priest,  but  avoiding  his  eyes. 

"It's  the  great  tyrant  you  are  coming  between  a  mother 
and  her  child,"  Johanna  said.  "But  sure  I  always  put  my 
trust  in  God." 

They  both  stared  thoughtfully  after  the  priest,  sighed  with 
relief  as  he  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  shop  door,  glanced 
at  one  another,  but  by  a  common  impulse  dropped  their  eyes 
evasively. 

"He  always  had  the  name  of  being  an  interfering  man," 
Johanna  said  meditatively. 

"He  is  all  that — still,  he's  the  priest  of  the  parish,"  said 
Tom. 

Tom  moved  books  to  and  fro  on  his  desk  and  thought 
over  the  future  of  the  business  with  Kitty  married  to  Joe 
Duggan. 

Johanna  stroked  the  tea-paper  on  the  counter  and  won- 
dered how  long  it  would  be  till  Kitty  followed  Winnie  into 
the  convent, 


Chapter  7 

TEA  had  been  prolonged  to  its  utmost  limits,  and 
all  pretence  of  eating  had  long  since  ceased. 
Father  Burke,  leaning  back  in  his  arm-chair,  was 
smoking  his  eleventh  cigarette,  and  vaguely 
watcnmg  the  smoke  as  it  rose  and  dissolved  in  the  warm 
air.  Winnie,  sitting  sideways  on  a  high  chair  beside  him, 
hung  over  him  with  anxious  attention,  and  held  an  ash-tray 
on  the  arm  of  his  chair  within  easy  reach  of  his  hand.  Kitty 
sat  rigidly  upright,  her  hands  clasped  on  her  lap,  and  stared 
vacantly  at  a  closely  drawn  blind.  Mrs.  Curtin,  on  the  edge 
of  her  chair,  was  hot  and  restless.  Since  the  clock  on  the 
mantelpiece  had  struck  six,  no  one  had  spoken,  and  the 
hands  now  pointed  to  twenty-five  past.  Mrs.  Curtin  was 
worried  by  the  silence  and  the  slow  passage  of  time.  She 
was  afraid  to  speak  lest  she  should  remind  Father  Burke 
of  the  lateness  of  the  hour.  He  was  due  in  church  at  half- 
past  six  for  confessions,  but  she  wanted  him  to  stay  on,  as 
Winnie  would  be  sure  to  break  out  again  the  moment  he  left. 
It  was  an  unnecessary  worry,  however,  for  Father  Burke, 
fully  conscious  of  the  time,  was  determined  to  sit  her  out. 
Indeed,  his  neglect  of  the  church  gave  him  a  pleasant  sensa- 
tion. Brady  and  Dunne  were  sure  to  be  there,  and  would 
be  jealous  of  the  growing  queues  of  penitents  patiently 
awaiting  him.  He  moved  to  a  more  comfortable  position  in 
his  chair,  and  Winnie  silently  readjusted  the  cushions  at  his 
back.  She  was  a  faithful  little  soul,  he  thought,  as  he  gave 
her  a  perfunctory  smile  which  she  acknowledged  with  a  deep 
sigh  and  a  deeper  blush.  It  was  a  pity,  though,  that  she 
looked  so  dreadful  after  crying.  If  she  only  looked  like 
Kitty  now !  But  then  no  one  ever  loked  like  Kitty,  and 
to-day  she  was  more  wonderful  than  ever.  All  the  after- 
noon she  had  been  almost  gentle  with  him.  Was  she  thaw- 
112 


Vocations  113 

ing  at  last?  She  looked  a  little  unhappy,  poor  thing,  and 
pale,  and  the  proud  look  had  almost  gone ;  but  she  was  teh 
times  more  beautiful  than  ever,  impossible  as  that  seemed. 
What  was  she  thinking  of  with  that  far-away  look  in  her 
eyes?  Perhaps  she  was  looking  forward,  like  him,  to  when 
Winnie  should  have  gone  and  they  would  have  tea  alone 
together.  He  smiled  contentedly  at  a  smoke  ring.  Winnie 
gave  a  deep  sigh.  He  looked  up  at  her  with  a  lingering 
smile.  This  was  Winnie's  day  and  he  must  try  and  forget 
Kitty.  Poor  old  Winnie  was  one  of  the  best.  Not  nearly 
as  much  fun  as  the  Muldoon  girls ;  but  her  innocence  was 
an  attraction  and  her  devotion  quite  extraordinary.  Except 
Bedelia  Rafter,  he  didn't  know  any  girl  in  Drumbawn  who 
was  quite  so  fond  of  him.  He  must  give  her  some  really 
special  sort  of  a  good-bye.  Was  she  ripe  for  a  kiss?  How 
incredulous  some  of  the  other  girls  would  be  if  they  were 
told  that  he  had  never  really  kissed  her.  But  they  didn't 
know  her  pernickety  scruples  that  worried  the  life  out  of 
him.  If  it  weren't  for  her  pound  a  week  Mass-offering,  and 
the  opportunity  of  seeing  Kitty,  he'd  have  given  her  the  go- 
by long  ago.  It  would  never  do  to  endanger  the  Mass- 
offering  which  she  was  sure  to  get  her  mother  to  continue. 
He  gave  her  a  languishing  glance  to  which  she  responded 
with  a  sigh  that  shook  her  breasts.  Oh,  a  kiss'd  be  all  right. 
She'd  be  sure  to  give  it  some  sort  of  a  religious  meaning, 
anyway.  If  only  Mrs.  Curtin  would  go,  he'd  get  it  over. 
The  pleasant  warmth,  the  dim  light  filtering  through  the 
closely  drawn  blinds,  the  silence,  save  for  the  regular  ticking 
of  the  clock,  had  a  somnolent  effect  and  he  dropped  off  into 
a  doze. 

Winnie  raised  a  warning  finger  and  said  "Ssh"  in  a  low 
whisper.  With  a  sigh  of  relief  Mrs.  Curtin  settled  herself 
well  back  in  her  chair  for  sleep. 

Kitty  continued  her  examination  of  the  blind.  Though 
her  eyes  stared  at  it  unblinkingly  it  disturbed  her.  The 
world  was  a  vast  desert  stretching  out  around  her  on  every 
side,  and  she  was  alone  with  her  misery  at  the  very  centre 
of  it.  While  the  blind  remained  still  she,  too,  was  at 


114  Vocations 

rest  .  .  .  almost  happy  with  her  parched  lips  and  aching 
heart.  So  it  must  feel  like  to  be  dead.  She  was  dead.  She 
set  her  lips  firmly  against  a  horrid  threat  of  being  re- 
awakened into  life  that  came  at  intervals  from  a  fitful  breeze 
which  disarranged  the  sash  pattern  made  on  the  blind  'by 
the  westering  sun.  The  noiseless  bellying  of  the  soft  linen 
set  her  teeth  on  edge,  and  she  held  her  breath  fearfully  till 
the  blind  sank  back  quietly  into  place. 

Winnie  removed  the  smouldering  cigarette  from  Father 
Burke's  fingers,  and  said  in  a  sibilant  whisper : 

"Don't,  mother.  You'd  be  sure  to  snore.  The  poor 
priest  must  be  dead  tired.  I  was  the  thirteenth  at  confession 
to-day,  and  there  were  several  after  me." 

Mrs.  Curtin  nodded  a  vigorous  assent.  "Be  careful 
Winnie,  that  you  don't  wake  him  yourself  with  your  talk," 
she  whispered,  putting  her  fingers  to  her  lips. 

Father  Burke's  jaws  fell  slightly  apart,  and  a  series  of 
jerky  little  snorts  distressed  Winnie.  She  moved  a  cushion 
and  smiled  happily  when  he  again  breathed  quietly  through 
his  nose.  What  beautiful  eyelashes  he  had !  And  that  little 
smile  on  his  lips.  What  was  he  dreaming  of  ?  Perhaps  of  her 
great  sacrifice  ?  No,  it  couldn't  be  that,  for  that  would  make 
him  sad.  He  was  just  happy  to  be  there  near  her  and  to  feel 
that  she  was  watching  over  him.  What  happiness  it  would  be 
to  sit  for  ever  just  watching  him  like  this.  But  of  course  that 
couldn't  be.  At  nine  o'clock — but  she  wouldn't  think  of  it. 
She  was  just  happy,  happy,  happy. 

Mrs.  Curtin  kept  herself  awake  by  sitting  in  an  uncom- 
fortable position.  Not  that  there  was  much  danger  of 
sleep,  she  assured  herself,  with  all  her  grand  clothes  on  her, 
and  her  new  boots  pinching  her  corns.  Would  Winnie  take 
it  to  heart,  on  the  last  night  and  all,  if  she  slipped  down  for 
a  while  to  the  shop?  If  there  was  no  one  in  the  snuggery 
she  might  manage  two  minutes  in  one  of  the  arm-chairs 
there  in  spite  of  her  clothes,  just  by  easing  the  boot  laces. 
Poor  Winnie!  she  looked  more  settled  now.  God  was  giv- 
ing her  the  grace  to  bear  the  last  wrench.  And  the  priest 
was  a  great  godsend.  What  had  come  over  Kitty  at  all. 


Vocations  115 

sitting  there  like  a  stuck  pig?  It  couldn't  be  anything  else 
but  the  grace  of  the  convent  at  last — thanks  be  to  God  for 
all  His  mercies.  Father  Brady  was  a  fool  of  a  man,  near  as 
big  a  fool  as  Tom,  and  that  was  saying  a  great  deal.  She 
smiled  with  satisfaction,  conscious  of  her  own  superior 
knowledge  of  the  ways  of  God,  and  dozed  quietly. 

Suddenly  the  sash  pattern  disappeared  altogether,  and  for 
a  moment  Kitty  had  a  sense  of  overwhelming  desolation. 
The  whole  world  was  blotted  out  and  she  no  longer  existed. 
She  blinked  her  eyes.  She  could  do  that.  And  she  could 
feel  a  clutching  at  her  throat  and  a  numbness  in  the  fingers 
clasped  on  her  lap.  And  there  was  the  blind  sucked  out  by 
the  draught  through  the  opening  at  the  top  of  the  window. 
It  must  be  late  as  the  sun  had  gone  from  both  windows.  It 
all  felt  so  funny  and  hot  and  choky.  A  quarter  to  seven. 
How  like  a  wake  it  all  was :  Father  Burke  stretched  back 
in  the  chair ;  Winnie  bending  over  the  corpse ;  her  mother's 
nodding  top-knot ;  the  waning  light.  She  laughed  shrilly. 

"There  now.  You've  awakened  the  priest,"  said  Winnie 
indignantly. 

"Not  at  all.  Not  at  all.  I  wasn't  asleep,"  Father  Burke 
said.  "I  was  just  thinking.  The  quiet,  the  calm,  the  peace, 
the  dim  religious  light.  What  a  fitting  prelude  it  all  is,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Curtin,  to  a  great  and  solemn  occasion." 

"It's  all  that,  to  be  sure,"  Mrs.  Curtin  said  doubtfully, 
flicking  the  remnants  of  sleep  out  of  her  eyes  with  her  best 
handkerchief  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  tearful  sigh. 

"An  insufficient  anodyne  though  for  the  depth  of  a 
mother's  grief,"  Father  Burke  sympathized. 

"It's  a  cruel  blow  altogether."  Mrs.  Curtin  had  recourse 
to  her  handkerchief  to  cover  some  uncertainty  as  to  his 
meaning. 

Winnie  sobbed  aloud. 

"I'm  miserable.  I'm  perfectly  miserable.  I  don't  want  to 
go  at  all,"  she  moaned. 

"And  Winnie  has  shown  such  splendid  courage,"  Father 
Burke  said  briskly,  ignoring  Winnie's  tears.  "Wonderful, 
wonderful.  'If  you  want  to  see  the  stuff  the  Christian  saints 


116  Vocations 

are  made  of/  I  said  to  Brady  at  dinner  to-day,  'just  look  at 
Winnie  Curtin!'  He's  not  a  spiritual  man,  but  you  will 
appreciate  it,  Mrs.  Curtin.  Such  steadfast  devotion  to  a  high 
ideal.  Such  joy  in  its  accomplishment,  no  grief,  no  sorrow, 
marching  breast  forward  cheerfully.  Why,  she  infects  us 
all  with  her  spirit  of  holy  gladness." 

Mrs.  Curtin,  who  had  put  away  her  tears  with  her  hand- 
kerchief at  Winnie's  first  sob,  broke  into  a  lyrical  anti- 
strophe  : 

"A  wonderful  girl  entirely.  Why,  instead  of  feeling  any 
sorrow  myself,  I've  been  lepping  for  joy  all  this  day.  And 
how  could  I  be  else  with  the  courage  she  gives  me?  Holi- 
ness oozing  out  of  her.  A  pattern  of  a  saint  for  town  and 
country." 

"It's  her  motto,"  Father  Burke  said  gravely.  "That 
wonderful  motto  of  hers  that  will  be  found  stamped  on  her 
soul  in  heaven,  so  faithful  to  it  has  she  been.  Simply  'do 
what  you  are  doing.'  The  quintessence  of  the  spiritual  life 
in  a  nutshell.  I  carry  one  worked  by  her  own  hands  in  silk 
in  my  breviary  as  a  daily  reminder.  She  enjoys  our  little 
teas  and  other  simple  recreative  amusements  because  some 
relaxation  of  the  body  is  helpful  to  the  growth  of  the  soul. 
But  if  called  upon  she  could  shed  her  blood  as  a  martyr 
with  the  same  simple  pleasure  with  which  she  eats  cherry 
cake.  To-night  she  will  walk  into  the  convent  with  the 
cheerfulness  with  which  she  eats  her  breakfast  or  goes  to 
confession." 

Winnie's  sobs  had  gradually  died  away.  Little  pictures  of 
herself  as  a  saint  flitted  through  her  mind.  If  only  she 
should  be  found  worthy?  Yet  what  was  Blessed  Margaret 
Mary  but  a  nun?  And  St.  Teresa  and  St.  Brigid?  If  she 
were  only  true  to  her  motto  she  might  be  hanging  up  yet 
in  every  convent  in  the  world  with  age  quod  agis  in  old  Eng- 
lish lettering  stamped  on  her  exposed  heart.  Her  nose  would 
not  look  as  well  as  Kitty's  in  a  picture,  but  the  artists 
would  be  sure  to  manage  that.  And  that  horrid  sinking  feel- 
ing had  gone  again.  It  always  did  when  Father  Burke 
spoke  so  beautifully.  Indeed,  one  had  only  to  think  of  him 


Vocations  117 

— he  gave  one  such  delightful  feelings.  He  was  a  saint  if 
ever  there  was  one.  Just  as  she  felt  when  she  once  drank 
port,  only  nicer — little  thrills  of  happiness  all  over  her. 
Only  port,  of  course,  was  bad  for  one,  and  he  could  be 
nothing  but  good. 

"I'm  so  happy,  so  happy,"  she  said,  looking  at  Father 
Burke  with  glistening  eyes. 

"Thank  God  for  that.  Thank  God  for  that,"  Mrs.  Curtin 
said  heartily.  "And  you,  too,  Father  Burke.  'Tis  you're  the 
comfort  of  the  soul.  If  she'd  only  stay  like  that  for  the 
next  couple  of  hours,"  she  added  doubtfully,  under  her 
breath.  "What  a  comfort  it'd  be  to  everyone." 

Father  Burke  patted  Winnie's  hand.  She  shut  her  eyes, 
to  enjoy  to  the  full  the  exquisite  sensation  of  his  touch. 

Their  voices  and  actions  seemed  very  remote  to  Kitty,  like 
a  play  she  once  saw  acted  behind  a  gauze  screen.  She  was 
no  longer  part  of  the  world — it  had  passed  her  by.  Human 
love  was  always  so.  It  broke  one  ruthlessly,  leaving  a  bruised 
heart  as  an  aching  memory.  The  saints  weren't  so  foolish 
as  she  had  thought.  They  must  have  known.  In  God  only 
could  one  rest  securely.  He  alone  never  disappointed,  never 
deserted  one.  Pain,  and  an  emptiness  and  desolation  that 
were  harder  to  bear  than  pain,  were  the  penalty  of  follow- 
ing one's  own  wicked  inclinations. 

There  was  a  difficult  knock  at  the  door  and  Tom  Curtin 
came  in  rubbing  his  hands  together,  with  a  half  pompous, 
half  apologetic  look. 

"Hope  I'm  not  intruding.  Just  took  a  look  in — the  last 
evening  you  know — just  to  see  how  we  were  getting  on,"  he 
said  sheepishly. 

Father  Burke  sat  upright  in  his  chair  and  pulled  down  his 
cuffs.  He  was  a  little  annoyed  with  Curtin.  If  people  came 
in  like  this  instead  of  going  out  he  should  never  get  away. 
And  Brady  might  cut  up  rusty  if  he  was  too  late  at  the 
church.  The  sight  of  his  sleeve  links  appeased  him.  It 
would  please  Winnie  that  he  was  wearing  one  of  her  gifts. 
He  held  up  a  hand,  smiled  meditatively  at  the  link  and  noted 
Winnie's  blush. 


118  Vocations 

"We  were  having  a  little  spiritual  conversation  appropri- 
ate to  the  occasion,"  he  lisped. 

"Hum,  hum,  we'll  throw  more  light  on  it.  Them  dark 
blinds  are  keeping  out  the  little  light  there  is,"  Curtin  said, 
fussing  round  the  windows  as  if  he  were  glad  to  find  some- 
thing to  do.  "What  about  the  gas  now  ?  Or  is  it  too  early  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  no.  There  is  too  much  light  now.  It  was  beauti- 
ful as  it  was/'  Winnie  said  pettishly. 

"For  goodness  sake,  sit  down,  Tom,  if  you're  going  to 
sit."  Mrs.  Curtin  gave  a  frown  at  her  husband  and  an 
anxious  look  at  Winnie. 

Kitty  gave  her  chair  to  her  father  and  sat  on  the  piano 
stool.  Curtin  sat  twirling  his  thumbs  and  whistling  silently. 
After  a  long  silence  he  said  abruptly : 

"Ye  none  of  ye  seem  too  happy,  with  all  your  spiritual 
talk.  If  you  don't  want  to  go,  Winnie  girl,  you've  only  to 
say  the  word." 

"Did  anyone  ever  hear  the  like  ?"  Mrs.  Curtin  said  indig- 
nantly. "If  that's  the  way  you  behave  in  a  drawing-room! 
Trying  to  throw  a  wet  blanket  on  us  and  we  all  so  happy. 
Tell  him  how  you're  feeling,  Winnie  darling." 

"I'm  happy  oh,  so  happy."  Winnie  gave  an  ecstatic  look 
at  Father  Burke. 

"What's  come  over  the  girl  at  all?"  Curtin  gazed  at 
Winnie's  radiant  face. 

"If  you  weren't  a  worldly-minded  man  you'd  see  the  grace 
of  her  vocation  shining  out  of  her  eyes.  But  sure  what's  as 
plain  as  daylight  to  them  that  can  see  is  a  hidden  secret  to 
the  likes  of  you,"  Mrs.  Curtin  said  triumphantly.  "It 
wasn't  to-day  nor  yesterday  it  came  there  neither,  as  I  often 
told  you.  Amn't  I  right  Father  Burke?" 

"Quite  right.  You  are  alway  right,  ma'am,"  Father 
Burke  said,  with  an  annoyed  look  at  the  clock.  "But  I'm 
afraid  I  must  be  going.  Duty  is  a  stern  taskmaster." 

"Oh,  Father!"  Winnie's  lips  were  tremulous. 

"No,  no,"  Mrs.  Curtin  said  anxiously.  "A  few  more  extra 
words  of  consolation  now,  and  she  disturbed  by  her  father 


Vocations  119 

and  all.  I'll  take  Tom  away  with  me  so  that  he  won't  bother 
her  again." 

"Well,  ten  minutes  then."  Father  Burked  smiled  at 
Winnie.  "Though  I  have  crowds  waiting  for  me  in  the 
church." 

Mrs.  Curtin  levered  herself  out  of  her  chair  and  tapped 
Tom  on  the  shoulder.  He  stood  up,  with  a  start,  a  puzzled 
look  on  his  face. 

"You'd  better  say  good-bye  to  her  now,"  Johanna  said. 

"Maybe  I  had,"  he  said  shyly.  "Good-bye,  girl,"  he  added, 
holding  out  his  hand. 

Winne  shook  his  hand,  stood  up,  pecked  him  on  either 
cheek  and  said  primly,  "Good-bye,  papa." 

"If  so  and  you  don't  like  it,  there's  always  a  comfortable 
home  for  you  to  come  back  to,"  he  said  thickly,  taking  her 
hand  again. 

"As  if  I'd  do  such  a  thing."  Indignantly  she  wrenched 
her  hand  free. 

"Even  to  hint  that  a  nun  could  leave  a  holy  convent — to 
be  so  lost  to  God  and  shame  and  decency,"  said  Johanna 
angrily.  "Is  it  to  insult  your  little  girl  you  came  in  to  make 
such  an  exhibition  of  yourself?  I'm  heartily  ashamed  of 
you,  Tom  Curtin.  And  before  the  priest,  too." 

"Whist,  woman."  Curtin  made  a  scowling  nod  towards 
Father  Burke,  and  followed  Johanna  out  of  the  room,  his 
head  bent  between  his  shoulders. 

"Poor,  dear  papa  is  a  little  rough  in  his  manners,"  Winnie 
gave  a  sigh  of  relief  as  the  door  shut  behind  him. 

"We  don't  choose  our  fathers,"  Father  Burke  said,  with 
a  shrug. 

"What  beautiful  consolation  you  always  give — but  you're 
beautiful  in  everything.  Oh,  I  nearly  forgot.  Mother  will 
continue  my  Mass  on  Tuesdays.  You'll  have  to  remember 
me  then,"  she  said  archly. 

"As  if  I  needed  any  reminder,"  he  reproached  her.  "The 
Mass  will  be  all  right,  of  course.  But  we  needn't  talk  of 
that  now." 

"No,"  she  said  unsteadily. 


120  Vocations 

She  stroked  lightly  with  her  finger  the  petal  of  a  rose  in  a 
bowl  on  the  piano. 

"I  feel  so  happy,  dear,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice  to  Kitty. 
Getting  no  reply  she  said  in  a  louder  tone,  "Wasn't  dear  papa 
horrid  to  say  such  a  thing,  Kitty  dear?" 

"Papa?  I  didn't  hear,"  Kitty  said,  with  a  feeble  smile, 
resting  her  hands,  as  if  to  steady  herself,  on  the  open  key- 
board. 

"It's  nice  of  you  to  mind  my  going  so  much.  I've  noticed 
it  all  day.  God  is  very  good  to  me,"  said  Winnie.  "As  for 
Father  Burke,  he  has  been  an  angel  out  of  heaven.  Do 
have  another  cigarette,  Father?"  , 

Her  fingers  trembled  as  she  tried  to  light  it  for  him.  He 
caught  her  hand  to  steady  it. 

"It's  getting  late.  I  ought  to  go  and  get  out  my  dress," 
she  said  nervously.  "My  postulant's  dress,  you  know.  I'll 
put  everything  on  here  except  the  cap — Peggy  has  taken 
that  up  in  a  bandbox." 

He  was  interested  in  the  evidence  of  his  power.  She  was 
a  nice  little  thing,  after  all,  he  thought,  watching  her  trem- 
ulous lips  and  eyelids.  He  pressed  her  hand  again  and  blew 
out  the  match  with  a  short  laugh.  The  complete  surrender 
in  her  swimming  eyes  moved  him  to  a  sneer  at  Kitty. 

"I've  to  be  off  in  a  few  minutes,  and  I  shan't  see  you 
again.  Can't  the  admirable  Kitty  help?"  he  said,  looking 
over  his  shoulder  at  Kitty,  his  teeth  bared  as  if  to  bite  her. 

"Yes,  of  course,  I  ought  to  be  doing  something,"  Kitty 
said,  smiling  gratefully  at  him.  "They're  in  your  top 
drawer  ?" 

"Everything — all  together.  Just  lay  them  out  on  my  bed," 
Winnie  said,  trembling  in  all  her  limbs. 

She  stood  as  still  as  she  could,  her  head  bent,  her  eyes 
shut,  waiting.  If  this  was  a  foretaste  of  the  convent,  the 
convent  would  be  heavenly.  Would  he  give  her  a  fatherly 
kiss  on  the  forehead?  Or — but  that  would  be  too  wonderful 
— a  warmer,  brotherly  kiss  on  the  cheek,  or  maybe,  on  the 
lips?  Sister  Eulalie  said  that  was  allowable. 

He  leant  back  against  the  piano  and  watched  Kitty  move 


Vocations  121 

slowly  to  the  door.  He  drew  hard  at  his  cigarette  and  ex- 
pelled the  smoke  with  a  curl  of  his  lip  and  nose.  Was  her 
air  of  tragic  meekness  a  pose,  or  was  she  yielding? 

Winnie  sighed  deeply.  He  frowned  and  smoked  short, 
quick  puffs.  Once  he  had  Winnie  out  of  the  way  he'd  very 
soon  find  out.  He  kept  his  eyes  fixed  moodily  on  the  door 
long  after  it  had  been  shut  behind  Kitty.  Winnie  sighed 
again.  He  looked  at  the  half -smoked  cigarette  regretfully, 
drew  another  long  puff,  rolled  the  smoke  round  and  round 
in  his  mouth  as  he  leant  across  the  tea-table  and  threw 
the  cigarette  into  an  ash-tray.  He  flicked  some  ash  off  his 
coat,  blew  the  smoke  through  his  nose  with  a  contented  sigh 
and  said,  "Now,  little  girl." 

"Oh,  Father  James,"  she  said  'breathlessly.  "The  last  time 
and  all." 

"The  beginning,  really.  You'll  see  lots  of  me.  You'll 
bear  up  now  for  my  sake,"  he  said,  laying  his  arm  on  her 
shoulder. 

"I'm  too  happy,  too  happy,"  she  panted,  clinging  to  him. 
He  fondled  her  hair,  smiled  tolerantly,  turned  her  a  little 
on  his  arm,  pushed  back  her  forehead  with  his  free  hand  and 
kissed  her  lips. 

"Oh,  oh/'  she  said  fiercely,  clutching  his  head  with  her 
arm,  and  pressing  his  lips  to  hers. 

She  clung  to  him  with  her  whole  body. 
"There,  there,  now,  child,"  he  said  gently,  trying  to  release 
himself.     "That's  enough  now.     I  must  be  going." 

"No,  no.  I  don't  want  you  ever  to  leave  me,  never, 
never,"  she  panted. 

"There,  there.  Have  sense  now.  I  hear  someone  on  the 
stairs.  This  would  never  do."  He  pushed  her  away  from 
him,  a  worried  look  on  his  face. 

"It's  only  mother  going  into  her  own  room,"  she  said, 
after  hesitating  for  a  moment.  "But  I  don't  care,  I  don't 
care." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do  care,"  he  admonished.  "And  I  care 
very  much  for  your  sake.  You're  going  to  be  a  very  holy 
little  nun.  And  a  very  circumspect  little  nun,  too.  Your 


122  Vocations 

vocation  is  a  great  blessing.  How  often  do  I  see  you  here? 
Once — twice  a  week  at  the  most.  And  now  I'll  manage  to 
see  you  practically  every  day — sometimes  several  times  a 
day.  Now,  you're  going  to  sit  down  there  quietly,  and  I'll 
smoke  another  cigarette.  Then  I  must  go.  But  there  will  be 
to-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow." 

He  led  her  to  an  arm-chair  and  she  sank  back  into  it  with 
a  half -dazed  look.  She  stared  at  him  with  unseeing  eyes  as 
he  lit  a  cigarette. 

He  blew  a  smoke  ring  and  said  gaily,  "Make  me  a  stock — 
a  plain  ribbed  silk  one.  Or  two  would  be  better.  I'll  send 
you  a  pattern.  And  a  biretta.  You'll  like  to  work  for  me, 
won't  you?  It  will  keep  us  m  touch  even  when  we  can't 
see  one  another." 

She  started  up  in  her  seat,  clasped  the  arms  with  her 
hands  and  leant  forward,  a  look!  of  terror  in  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  do  wrong — I  didn't  do  wrong?  Did  I — 
did  I  ?" 

He  laughed.  "My  dear  child,  my  dearest  Winnie,"  he  said 
gently.  "Do  you  think  I'd  allow  you  to  do  wrong?  A  mere 
brotherly  kiss — a  mere  nothing.  If  you  go  on  like  this,"  he 
added  more  sternly,  "and  make  mountains  out  of  molehills, 
I  can't  see  you  at  all." 

"  I  don't  know — I  don't  know,"  she  said  miserably.  "  It 
was  lovely — it  was  horrid.  It  was  so  beautiful.  No,  it 
wasn't.  It  was  like  hell  and  heaven  mixed." 

"  Then  you  mustn't  kiss  me  again  if  it  was  only  a  sort  of 
Purgtory,"  he  said,  with  a  dry  laugh. 

"  Oh,  but  I  want  to— I  want  to." 

"  So  you  can,  often  and  often.  But  you  must  be  sensible 
and  not  run  to  confession  to  Father  Brady  about  it." 

"  You're  sure  it's  right  ?  "  she  said  eagerly.  "  It  makes  me 
feel  so  queer.  It's  all  over  me  still." 

Mrs.  Curtin  bustled  in. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  was  so  put  upon  in  the  shop  as  to  keep  you 
a  few  minutes  extra,  youf  reverence,"  she  apologized.  "  But 
sure  you  couldn't  be  occupied  in  a  holier  work  of  mercy. 
How  is  she  doing  now,  the  poor  thing  ?  " 


Vocations  123 

"  Beautifully,"  Father  Burke  laughed.  "  I've  given  her  a 
good  talking  to  and  she's  going  to  be  very  good.  No  more 
scruples,  eh,  Winnie  ?  "  he  said  significantly. 

"  N — no,"  she  said,  hesitating. 

"  Is  that  how  you  trust  me  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a  frown. 

"  Oh,  I  do  trust  you,  I  do,  I  do,"  she  cried. 

"  A  little  pick  of  supper  now  before  you  go,  my  petteen," 
Mrs.  Curtin  said  heartily.  "  Peggy  has  it  all  ready  for 
you." 

"Oh,  no,  mother;  I  couldn't  bear  to  look  at  it."  Winnie 
shuddered. 

"  Good  night,  now,  my  dear  child  and  may  every  blessing 
attend  you.  I  won't  say  good-bye,  for  there  is  no  good- 
bye," Father  Burke  said  suavely. 

Her  fingers  clung  to  his,  but  he  firmly  released  his  hand. 

"  I'd  leave  her  alone  for  a  while  just  to  meditate  on  what 
I've  been  saying  to  her,"  he  added  quietly  to  Mrs.  Curtin. 
"  The  less  she's  worried  the  better." 

"  The  trumpet  of  an  archangel  couldn't  sound  the  praises 
of  all  your  reverence  has  done  for  that  little  girl,"  Mrs. 
Curtin  said  gratefully,  as  she  accompanied  him  out  of  the 
room.  "  Put  that  envelope  in  your  pocket.  If  you  say 
twenty  Masses  or  so  for  what  you'll  find  in  it  I'll  be  well 
satisfied,  knowing  the  power  you  put  into  them.  This  is 
extra  to  our  other  little  arrangements — just  to  keep  her 
heart  fixed  firm  on  God." 

At  that  moment  Winnie's  eyes,  at  least,  were  fixed  on 
the  priest's  back.  She  kept  them  there  till  he  disappeared. 
Then  her  hands  fell  listlessly  to  her  sides  and  she  tottered 
towards  the  sofa  behind  the  door,  stumbling  against  a  chair 
in  the  gathering  dark.  She  threw  herself  face  downwards 
on  the  sofa  and  broke  into  a  fit  of  dry  sobbing.  She  no 
longer  thought  of  God  or  sin,  but  of  something  she  had 
missed — something  wonderful  that  she  had  been  on  the 
brink  of  and  had  missed.  Something  that  would  have  been 
cheap  at  the  price  of  torments  here  and  hereafter.  Hunger 
she  had  experienced,  and  thirst  and  fever,  but  not  all  of 
them  combined  could  be  as  painful  as  the  aching  want  that 


124  Vocations 

oppressed  her  now.  It  was  as  if  she  had  been  half  through 
the  gate  of  heaven  and  had  then  suddenly  fallen  straight 
into  the  depths  of  hell.  Oh,  not  hell,  she  thought,  with  a 
shudder.  He  said  there  was  no  harm  in  it,  and  he  knew. 
Of  couse,  it  was  all  right.  And  to-morrow  she  should  see 
him  again.  Would  Sister  Eulalie  be  able  to  arrange  about 
the  sacristy  for  the  morning?  It  was  so  stupid  of  her  not 
to  have  asked  him  if  he  were  saying  Mass  at  the  convent. 
She  must  leave  it  all  in  God's  hands.  She  jumped  up  rest- 
lessly and  made  her  way  to  her  own  window.  Both  win- 
dows would  be  Kitty's  now,  she  thought,  with  a  sinking 
heart.  And  there  was  Derry,  the  lamplighter,  lighting  the 
gas  in  the  street.  It  was  a  pity  to  light  the  lamps  with  that 
beautiful  colour  in  the  sky.  And  Kitty  could  watch  it  all 
go — not  to-night,  perhaps,  but  other  nights.  It  wasn't  fair. 
.  .  .  Poor  Kitty.  She  looked  to-day  as  if  it  was  she  who 
was  going  into  the  convent.  How  miserable  she'd  be  with- 
out a  Father  Burke  or  anyone.  For  he  was  to  be  her  own 
only.  Hers,  hers,  and  she'd  see  him  every  day.  She  drew 
the  blind  reluctantly  and  lit  the  gas.  On  her  way  round 
the  tea-table  to  pull  down  the  blind  of  the  other  window 
she  caught  a  glimpse  of  herself  in  the  mirror  on  the  mantel- 
piece. She  turned  fully  round  to  get  a  better  view.  God 
was  very  good  to  her.  After  all  she  had  been  through,  she 
had  never  looked  so  well — pale  and  interesting.  Not  a 
trace  of  redness  even  in  her  nose.  How  lucky  the  tea- 
things  hadn't  been  removed,  she  felt  so  ravenously  hun- 
gry. She  munched  a  cream  cake,  pulled  down  the  blind, 
came  back  to  the  table  and  poured  herself  out  a  cup  of 
cold  tea.  As  she  was  putting  down  the  empty  cup  she  gave 
a  little  start.  How  funny,  she  had  actually  taken  his  cup 
by  mistake.  It  wasn't  funny  at  all,  it  was  Providence.  She 
raised  the  cup  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it  passionately.  She 
bit  into  the  thin  china  till  it  cracked.  She  didn't  care,  she 
could  eat  it.  But  that  would  be  sacrilege — a  cup  he  had 
drunk  out  of.  Thank  God,  she  hadn't  broken  it.  With  a 
reverent  kiss  she  put  it  down  gently.  She  looked  around 
with  a  blank  stare.  It  would  never  be  the  same  anywhere 


Vocations  125 

else.  She  was  a  fool  to  go  into  the  convent.  Could  that 
wonderful  thing  ever  happen  anywhere  else?  Perhaps  it 
was  only  here  she  could  have  that  heavenly  feeling.  She 
threw  herself  on  her  knees  in  her  own  arm-chair,  clasped 
the  back  with  her  arms,  and  kissed  passionately  the  lace 
antimacassar  on  which  his  head  had  rested.  She  sniffed  in 
with  a  satisfying  breath  the  faint  odour  of  the  oil  he  used 
on  his  hair. 

"  Winnie,  Winnie,  it's  coming  on  the  time,"  in  her  moth- 
er' s  voice,  made  her  heart  almost  stop  and  snapped  the  de- 
licious feeling. 

"  Well,  to  be  sure.  On  your  knees  in  the  parlour !  As  if 
you  won't  have  enough  of  it  above  in  the  convent.  Tis 
you're  the  nun  already.  But  be  coming  along  now  and 
change  into  your  things.  Kitty  has  'em  all  ready,  and 
everything  else  has  gone  up.  I've  nothing  to  do  but  to  slip 
into  my  bonnet." 

Winnie  sought  the  floor  carefully  with  a  foot.  Why  did 
her  limbs  feel  like  lead? 

"  Hurry  on,  child.    There  isn't  a  minute  to  spare." 

She  turned  round  and  stared  at  her  mother  resentfully. 
The  cheerful,  smiling  face  quickened  her  anger. 

Mrs.  Curtin's  jaw  drooped.  "  Why  are  you  looking  at 
me  like  that?  "  she  stammered.  "  You're  not  drawing  back 
at  the  last  minute,  are  you  ?  " 

The  anger  died  quickly  in  Winnie's  eyes.  She  looked 
round  the  room  desperately,  hopelessly.  "No,  I'm  not," 
she  said  feebly. 

"  Then  hurry  on  like  a  good  girl,"  said  her  mother,  in  a 
relieved  tone.  "  And  we'll  have  our  last  talk  going  up  the 
hill." 

"  I'd  rather  you  wouldn't  come,  mother.  Let  Kitty  come. 
She  won't  talk.  I  couldn't  stand  any  more." 

"  Did  anyone  ever  hear  the  like  ?  To  the  mother  that 
bore  you,  too " 

Mrs.  Curtin  stopped  short  at  the  threat  of  weeping  in 
Winnie's  eyes  and  lips.  "  Sure  if  you  like,"  she  added  has- 
tily. "  Though  the  nuns'll  think}  it  queer.  And  I  prepared 


126  Vocations 

for  it  all  the  day.  Good-bye,  then,  agra,  and  the  Lord  love 
you.  But  sure  He  will  for  you're  His  own  .  .  .  though  you 
are  hard  on  your  poor  mother  itself." 

She  kissed  Winnie's  upturned  unresponsive  lips. 

"There  now,  there  now,  'tis  you're  the  good  child,"  she 
said  brokenly.  "  Though  it's  like  a  lump  of  ice  you  are. 
Run  away  with  you  now.  It's  late  you  are  already,"  she 
added,  with  a  half-frightened  look.  "  I'm  as  happy  as  a 
queen." 

Had  Winnie  looked  back  on  her  dazed  way  to  the  door 
she  would  have  seen  her  mother  drop  limply  into  an  arm- 
chair and  weep  the  first  real  tears  she  had  wept  for  many 
years.  But  Winnie  didn't  look  back,  nor  did  she  hear  the 
muttered,  "  Oh,  my  dear  God,  I  hope  I  done  right.  My  O, 
my  O,  the  face  of  her !  "  She  climbed  the  stairs  wearily  to 
the  large  room  she  shared  with  Kitty  at  the  top  of  the  house. 
At  the  door  she  began  to  take  off  her  dress.  Kitty,  who  had 
been  sitting  listlessly  on  the  end  of  Winnie's  bed,  got  up 
and  said,  "  It's  late." 

"  It's  late,"  Winnie  repeated. 

There  was  a  long  pause  broken  only  by  the  ticking  of  the 
alarm  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  and  the  swish  of  Winnie's 
clothes. 

"  Did  you  set  the  clock  for  Mass  ?  "  Winnie  asked. 

"  No.  But  you  won't  be  here,  and  I  think  I'll  have  a 
sleep." 

"  I  won't  be  here,"  Winnie  repeated  dully.  "  You  can 
have  all  my  lace  chemises,"  she  added,  putting  down  regret- 
fully the  one  she  had  taken  off. 

"  What  will  you  do  with  your  silver  and  things  ?  "  Kitty 
said,  toying  with  hatpins  on  Winnie's  table.  "  I  have  too 
much." 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  It's  a  quarter  to  nine  already,"  Kitty  said  after  a  long 
silence,  putting  on  her  hat. 

"  I'm  ready.  Run  down  before  me  and  keep  everyone 
out  of  the  hall.  Mother  isn't  coming,"  Winnie  said  wearily. 
"  I  want  to  see  no  one." 


Vocations  127 

"Isn't  she?" 

Kitty  crept  down  the  stairs  noiselessly  and  held  the  hall 
door  half  open  till  Winnie  reached  it  in  a  breathless  run. 

Winnie  stood  for  a  moment  half-way  across  the  bridge 
and  looked  at  the  broad  water  shimmering  in  the  light  of 
the  newly  risen  moon  past  its  full. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of  ?  "  Kitty  asked. 

"  I'm  not  thinking  at  all."  Winnie  moved  away  quickly. 
"  I'll  be  late." 

"  What  does  it  all  feel  like?  "  Kitty  asked  as  they  mounted 
the  short  hill. 

"  I  don't  know.  I'm  not  feeling  at  all,"  Winnie  said  list- 
lessly. And,  after  a  pause,  "  What  are  you  going  to  do, 
Kitty?" 

"  I  don't  know."  Kitty  frowned.  A  few  paces  further 
on,  she  added,  "  It's  a  horrid  world." 

"  I  don't  know,"  Winnie  said,  as  she  rang  the  bell  of  the 
convent  gate-house.  "  Maybe  the  convent  is  the  best  after 
all,"  she  added,  without  enthusiasm. 

When  they  had  got  free  of  the  welcome  of  the  gate- 
woman,  Kitty  said,  with  a  slight  shiver,  "  I  don't  know.  It 
might." 

"Three  minutes  to  nine?"  a  pleasant-faced  old  nun  said 
with  mock  severity,  from  inside  the  open  door  of  the  con- 
vent. "  A  nice  business  keeping  all  the  nuns  waiting  in  the 
corridor.  That  you,  Kitty?  Where's  your  mother?  Say 
good-bye  on  the  doorstep.  You  must  see  her  in  her  cap 
another  time." 

They  clung  to  each  other  passionately. 

"  There,  that's  enough'"  Reverend  Mother  called  out  im- 
patiently. 

"  I  wish  I  was  back  at  home,"  Winnie  whispered. 

"I  half  wish  I  was  coming  in,"  Kitty  said,  and  turned 
reluctantly  away. 


Chapter  8 

UP  to  his  thirty-second  year  Father  Bernardino 
had  been  regarded  by  his  Order  as  a  failure, 
had  been  unable,  in  the  expressive  words  of  his 
Superior  of  the  Colmanites,  to  earn  his  keep. 
He  had  been  put  on  the  teaching  staff  of  the  Order 
because  of  a  vague  attachment  he  was  supposed  to  have  to 
literature.  He  had  an  accent  and  manners  which  attracted 
parents.  His  pupils  recited  "  My  name  is  Norval,"  and 
Mark  Antony's  speech  over  the  dead  body  of  Caesar  with  a 
depth  of  feeling  that  charmed  the  Superior  himself.  But 
success  as  a  teacher  under  the  Intermediate  Education 
Board  was  the  success  of  pupils  in  written  examinations. 
There  Father  Bernardine  was  a  lamentable  failure.  He 
was  interested  only  in  the  sounds  and  emotional  effects  of 
words  while  the  dull  examiners  demanded  a  knowledge  of 
certain  dry  facts  which  Father  Bernardine  could  neither  ac- 
quire nor  impart.  He  explained  to  the  Superior  that  the 
Examiners  were  all  wrong,  that  the  soul  of  words  was  more 
important  than  the  body.  The  Superior  admitted  that  it 
well  might  be  so,  but  as  the  soul-value  of  words  in  pounds, 
shillings  and  pence  was  small,  he  would  appoint  Father  Ber- 
nardine to  the  Mission  staff,  where  he  might  contribute  more 
to  the  upkeep  of  the  Order. 

Within  a  few  years  failure  was  entirely  forgotten  in  a 
spectacular  success.  Father  Bernardine,  the  Colmanite,  was 
a  household  word.  Jesuits  smiled  cynically  and  murmured 
"  a  mere  voice,"  "  a  husk,"  "  Adonis,"  "  plagiarist,"  "  ac- 
tor." The  Superior  of  the  Colmanites  retorted  "  jealousy  " 
with  a  shrug;  and  smiled  complacently  when  Father  Bur- 
sar presented  his  balance  sheet.  The  school  hardly  mattered, 
the  mission  field  had  become  so  productive.  The  magic  of 
Father  Bernardine's  voice  captured  Jesuit  strongholds, 
routed  Franciscans  and  Dominicans,  Redemptorists  and 
128 


Vocations  129 

Vincentians.  Though  every  possible  man  was  added  to  the 
Mission  staff,  the  Colmanites  were  forced  to  refuse  more 
missions  and  retreats  in  a  month  than  they  had  been  offered 
in  twelve  before  the  advent  of  Father  Bernardine.  Com- 
monplace Colmanites  were  tolerated  even  in  Cathedral 
parishes  in  the  hope  that  the  star  of  the  Order  might  come, 
perhaps,  the  next  time.  For,  of  course,  it  was  physically 
impossible  for  him  to  be  in  a  dozen  places  at  once,  which 
was  what  the  demand  for  him  meant.  He  was  so  deeply  en- 
gaged, years  ahead,  for  retreats,  anniversary  sermons  and 
special  appeals  that  he  could  attend  only  the  most  impor- 
tant missions.  Carrickdhu,  his  native  parish,  within  three 
miles  of  Drumbawn,  was  an  exception.  Here  he  came  every 
year  for  the  last  fortnight  in  August  and  stayed  with  Fa- 
ther Tobin,  the  parish  priest.  He  gave  a  week's  mission 
singlehanded,  in  the  third  week  of  August,  if  the  harvest 
was  early;  during  the  fourth  week  if  the  harvest  was  late. 
That  he  might  not  interfere  unduly  with  work  in  the  fields 
he  preached  only  at  night.  Though  it  was  his  only  holiday 
he  worked  hard.  His  daily  hour  before  the  mirror  for  the 
practice  of  gesture  was  increased  to  two.  He  made  new 
experiments  in  voice  production,  and  recast  his  old  sermons 
for  the  coming  year.  In  the  early  days  of  his  mission  work 
his  Superior  dryly  suggested  that  he  might  try  writing  a 
sermon  of  his  own.  "  Why  ?  "  he  asked  modestly,  "  when 
there  are  so  many  excellent  sermons  lying  idle.  And  if  it 
comes  to  that  they  really  are  my  own.  I  take  only  the  bits 
that  suit  my  voice.  A  sentence  from  Cardinal  Newman 
here,  from  Dalgairns  there.  Bishop  Hedley  comes  in  very 
useful.  And  for  appeal  no  one  can  beat  Father  Faber.  For 
hell  and  the  Divine  wrath,  I  made  a  great  find  in  an  old 
Spanish  Jesuit.  They  are  half  my  own  by  the  time  I  have 
them  arranged  and  committed  to  memory.  They  are  all  my 
own  when  I  have  practiced  them  a  few  times  before  the 
glass.  I  once  heard  Bishop  Hedley  deliver  a  bit  of  one  of 
my  sermons — a  bit  of  his  own,  I  mean — and  it  nearly  made 
me  cry.  It's  all  delivery,  Father  Superior,  and  I've  got  the 
secret  of  it."  He  had  a  flexible  voice  of  great  range  and 


130  Vocations 

variety.  He  was  tall  and  thin  and  dark.  The  pallor  of  his 
ascetic  face  was  accentuated  by  his  dark  hair.  Nor  did  his 
long  thin  hands,  his  graceful  gestures,  his  mobile  mouth, 
his  white  teeth,  his  regular  features  and  large,  expressive 
brown  eyes  lessen  his  effect  in  the  pulpit.  The  effect  he 
produced  in  the  pulpit  was  continued  in  the  confessional. 
Of  a  naturally  gentle  disposition,  he  left  nothing  to  chance. 
He  had  carefully  selected  passages  of  his  favourite  writers 
memorized  ready  for  every  emergency;  and  delivered  them, 
as  the  occasion  arose,  in  a  low  voice  as  soothing  as  the 
throaty  gurgle  of  a  nightingale.  Almost  every  convent  he 
visited  asked  him  to  be  extraordinary  confessor;  but  the 
many  calls  on  his  time  compelled  him  to  limit  the  number 
to  twenty.  Drumbawn  Mercy  Convent,  which  had  been  the 
first  to  invite  him  when  he  was  comparatively  unknown,  al- 
ways continued  to  be  his  favourite. 

Kitty  had  heard  of  him  often  from  the  nuns  at  St.  Mar- 
garet's and  Drumbawn  and  from  her  schoolfellows  as  a 
"  regular  saint."  "  And  so  handsome,  my  dear.  Such 
eyes."  Bessie  Sweetman  had  been  in  love  with  him,  for  a 
month  from  hearing  him  preach  once;  and  Mother  De- 
laney,  the  music  mistress  at  St.  Margaret's,  had  declared 
with  tears  in  her  eyes  that  the  only  thing  in  nature  that 
reminded  her  of  heaven  or  of  a  full  orchestra  was  Father 
Bernardine's  voice.  The  whole  school — except  Winnie,  who 
took  praise  of  any  other  priest  as  a  reflection  on  Father 
Burke — was  thrilled  when  he  had  to  break  his  one  engage- 
ment to  preach  at  St.  Margaret's  in  order  to  preach  the 
dedication  sermon  of  a  great  Cathedral  in  presence  of  the 
Papal  Legate.  Girls  who  had  never  seen  him  developed  a 
"  particular "  for  him.  His  photographs,  introduced  sur- 
reptitiously in  bulk,  and  given  away  at  an  immense  profit 
in  money  or  in  kind  by  Becky  Royston,  a  day  girl,  had  a 
great  vogue  as  prayer  book  markers  till  one  was  discovered 
by  Reverend  Mother,  who  promptly  confiscated  all  and  de- 
prived the  whole  school  of  jam  for  tea.  When  it  was  found 
out  that  the  confiscated  photographs  were  being  used  by  the 
nuns  as  markers  for  their  Office  books,  a  rebellion  in  the 


Vocations  131 

school  was  happily  averted  by  the  timely  visit  of  an  ancient 
Royal  Personage.  The  awe  of  the  hurried  preparations ;  the 
tense  expectation  at  the  approach  of  the  landau  with  out- 
riders ;  the  bewilderment  when  the  Venerable  Lady,  who 
had  to  be  nudged  by  her  lady-in-waiting  from  profound 
sleep,  merely  glanced  out  of  the  corner  of  a  blinking  eye  at 
the  illuminated  address  and  bouquets,  muttered,  "Eh,  is  this 
the  lunatic  asylum?"  and  dropped  off  to  sleep  again;  the 
indignation  that  followed  the  rapid  departure  of  the  car- 
riage, finding  expression  later  in  forcible  comment,  put 
Father  Bernardine  for  the  moment  out  of  everybody's  head. 
When  this  excitement  wore  off  a  few  girls  reverted  to  the 
row  over  the  photographs,  but  Kitty,  who  took  only  a  pass- 
ing interest  in  nuns  and  priests,  was  tired  of  the  subject. 

During  the  following  holidays  she  heard  of  Father  Ber- 
nardine several  times  at  the  Drumbawn  convent.  Once  she 
saw  him  drive  by  in  a  trap  with  Father  Tobin,  and  said  to 
Winnie  what  a  handsome  man  he  was.  Winnie  sniffed  and 
said  that  nothing  would  induce  her  to  go  out  of  her  way  to 
hear  him,  though  from  the  way  their  mother  talked  one 
would  think  he  was  the  only  priest  in  the  world.  Winnie's 
sneers  made  Kitty  take  a  languid  interest  in  him.  She  had 
half  wished  during  two  successive  Augusts  to  attend  the 
mission  at  Carrickdhu,  but  Winnie  was  resolute  against  it. 
For  months  his  name  had  not  been  mentioned,  and  Kitty 
had  not  once  thought  of  him.  Yet  as  she  left  the  convent, 
after  saying  good-bye  to  Winnie,  she  thought  of  him 
vaguely  as  a  possible  help  in  her  trouble. 

Her  feet  dragged  as  she  walked  down  the  drive.  The 
silence,  the  dark  shadows  under  the  elms,  gave  some  ease  to 
the  feeling  of  unutterable  loneliness  that  oppressed  her. 
The  moonlight  flooding  the  grass  and  glistening  on  the  laurel 
shrubbery  brought  her  peace.  She  stood  at  a  turn  of  the 
short  avenue,  and  looked  back  at  the  convent.  It  seemed  so 
quiet  and  restful.  A  light  was  switched  off  in  the  front 
reception  room.  The  long  row,  rambling  creeper-covered, 
Queen  Anne  house,  looked  ghost-like  in  the  moonlight.  A 
smiling,  sleeping  ghost  that  wouldn't  hurt.  And  the  big 


132  V  ocations 

modern  school  buildings  at  the  back,  the  orphanage  that 
flanked  it  on  one  side  and  the  chapel  on  the  other,  towered 
over  it  sternly  but  protectingly. 

A  bell  disturbed  the  silence  and  startled  her  for  a  mo- 
ment. She  looked  eagerly  at  the  convent  as  if  expecting 
some  change.  The  sound  died  away,  but  everything  was  as 
before.  The  house  smiled  back  at  her.  The  glow  in  the 
northwest  was  the  lingering  farewell  of  the  sun.  The  nuns 
were  at  night  prayer  now — Winnie,  too.  In  there  was  peace 
and  quiet.  She  shivered  a  little  in  her  thin  clothes.  Soon 
the  nuns  would  go  to  their  cells — to  rest.  Reverend  Moth- 
er's cheerful  voice  came  back  to  her.  How  happy  it  had 
sounded,  and  confident.  Winnie  would  be  like  that  soon. 
They  knew  what  happiness  was.  The  very  look  of  the  house 
proclaimed  peace;  with  the  moon  smiling  down  on  it  be- 
nignly, and  the  sun  leaving  it  with  regret.  And  she  was  out 
here  in  the  cold  shadow  of  the  trees,  cut  off  from  all  happi- 
ness, alone  with  her  misery. 

The  gatewoman  rattled  a  bunch  of  keys  and  coughed. 
Kitty  turned  round  regretfully  and  hurried  to  the  gate. 

"  So  you've  left  her  within?  "  the  woman  said. 

"I'm  afraid  I've  kept  you  waiting.  Good  night.  Thanks 
very  much." 

"It's  a  queer  taste  entirely  they  have,  the  poor  things. 
But  sure  you  have  more  sense." 

Sense?  She  had  no  sense,  Kitty  thought  bitterly  as  she 
hurried  down  the  steep  pavement.  Winnie  had  sense  to 
leave  the  world  before  she  discovered  how  hollow  it  was. 
There  was  Brigid  Waldron.  When  she  was  crossed  in  love 
she  entered  a  convent.  But,  of  course,  she  had  a  vocation. 
It  was  Father  Bernardine  who  advised  her.  How  she 
blessed  him  when  Kitty  went  to  see  her  in  the  little  convent 
in  Drumcondra  Road.  And  how  happy  she  was.  Such  a 
spiritual  looking  man,  too. 

She  lingered  in  crossing  the  bridge.  The  sound  of  laugh- 
ter floated  up  the  river,  and  the  splash  of  oars. 

"If  you  kiss  me  again  I'll  smash  you  with  the  oar,"  came 
in  a  muffled  voice,  followed  by  a  merry  giggle. 


Vocations  133 

She  leant  against  the  parapet,  a  hot  blush  suffusing  her 
cheeks. 

"  Oh,  oh.  Isn't  six  enough  for  you  ?  They'll  see  you  off 
the  bridge." 

"If  that's  all  that's  troubling  you,  we'll  come  over  into 
the  shadow." 

Young  Muldoon  and  Bedelia  Rafter,  she  thought  with  an 
aching  feeling  of  loss.  And  they  said  Bedelia  was  going  to 
be  a  nun,  too.  What  did  it  feel  like  to  be  kissed?  She 
should  never  be  kissed — now.  Never.  Never.  And  he  had 
often  kissed  Daisy  Thornton.  She  felt  a  choking  sensation, 
half  shame,  half  bitterness.  Daisy  Thornton  whom  she  had 
loved  and  trusted.  She  couldn't  hate  him — she  could  only 
try  to  forget.  It  was  all  her  own  fault — she  was  a  fool. 
But  Daisy  she'd  never  forgive.  Deceitful  was  no  name  for 
her.  And  to  have  pretended  to  be  her  friend  all  these  years. 
All  Daisy's  virtues  stood  out  clearly  as  heinous  faults.  Then, 
with  a  shudder,  she  seemed  to  be  gazing  at  a  blank  wall. 
Daisy  didn't  know.  No  one  knew.  She  must  see  Brigid 
Waldron  again.  Brigid  had  been  miserable  and  had  got 
over  it.  And  Father  Bernardine  had  helped  Brigid.  Could 
he  do  anything  for  her  ?  He  looked  so  kind.  Father  Brady 
was  kind.  No  one  could  be  kinder  than  he  was  to-day.  But 
sooner  or  later  he  was  sure  to  laugh  at  her.  She  couldn't 
stand  that  now.  Father  Bernardine  was  sure  not  to  laugh. 
He  couldn't  with  his  great  solemn  eyes.  And  he  had  so 
much  experience,  Brigid  Waldron  said.  Why,  he'd  soon  be 
at  Carrickdhu.  Didn't  her  mother  say  something  of  the 
mission  beginning  there  to-morrow,  the  harvest  was  so 
early?  Very  likely  he  had  come  down  to-day. 

She  walked  slowly  across  the  bridge.  The  coming  of 
Father  Bernardine  was  almost  providential,  she  thought, 
with  a  more  hopeful  feeling.  She  could  never  tell  Father 
Brady  all  she  had  been  thinking  about — about  that  man  for 
the  last  fortnight.  It  would  be  easier  with  a  stranger. 

At  the  corner  of  the  bridge  she  almost  ran  into  Joe  Dug- 
gan. 

"What  in  the  world  has  you  out  at  this  time  of  night, 


134  Vocations 

Miss  Kitty?  "  he  said,  with  surprise,  removing  his  hat  from 
the  back  of  his  head  and  struggling  with  a  lighted  cigarette 
and  a  stick  in  an  effort  to  shake  hands. 

"  I've  been  seeing  my  sister  to  the  convent.  Good  night," 
she  said. 

His  nervousness  and  trembling  voice  moved  her.  She 
could  feel  sympathy  for  anyone  who  was  in  love.  She  had 
seen  before  that  he  loved  her ;  but,  then,  it  had  made  her 
hard  and  critical.  Now  she  knew  the  horrible  feeling  of 
having  the  gift  of  oneself  rejected;  or,  what  was  worse, 
ignored. 

"  Don't  go  yet.  There's  something  I  want  to  say  to  you 
badly,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  her  wrist. 

It  moved  her  strangely.  She  withdrew  her  hand  and  a 
momentary  vision  of  Dr.  Thornton  in  boating  flannels  gave 
place  to  Joe  Duggan,  nervously  grinning  at  her. 

"  Can't  you  come  up  to  the  house  ?  "  she  said,  in  a  harder 
tone.  She  looked  at  him  a  little  resentfully.  If  only  he 
were  different.  It  was  as  if  he  had  done  her  a  wrong  by 
having  such  an  ugly  face,  such  a  vile  accent,  such  a  sham- 
bling, awkward  pose.  His  hat,  poised  jauntily  on  the  back 
of  his  head,  made  her  shudder. 

"  I  can't  talk  of  it  in  the  house.  It  chokes  me,"  he  said 
excitedly.  "  I  want  the  air.  I  came  out  now  to  work  it  off 
me.  And  by  the  luck  of  the  world  you  came  by.  Come 
along  down  by  the  boathouse.  It's  quiet  there — and  I'll  tell 
you." 

The  earnestness  of  his  voice  held  her.  Her  mother  would 
be  angry.  What  matter?  She  turned  down  by  the  side  of 
the  bridge.  There  was  some  dignity  about  him  to-night. 
She  felt  a  thrill  of  curiosity,  of  expectancy.  For  a  few  sec- 
onds she  walked  with  her  eyes  shut,  buoyant,  as  if  on  air. 

"  It's  this  way,  you  see,"  he  began,  and  brought  her  back 
to  earth  again.  She  couldn't  do  it.  She  couldn't  do  it.  And 
she  wanted  to  in  a  way.  But  it  was  only  because  he  made 
her  think  of  the  other — of  the  other  whom  she  had  put  en- 
tirely out  of  her  heart.  And  here  were  all  the  old  feelings 
coming  back  again.  She  listened  with  growing  resentment. 


Vocations  135 

.  .  .  Love  ...  the  shop  .  .  .  extension  of  trade.  After 
all  her  dreams  she'd  be  just  a  help  to  push  this  horrid  little 
man  on  in  the  world.  And  she'd  have  to  sit  and  listen  to 
him  talking  of  "  tride  " — he  must  have  picked  up  that  hor- 
rid pronunciation  of  the  word  in  London. 

"  And  we'd  be  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long,"  he  wound  up. 

The  look  in  his  eyes  moved  her  to  pity.  He  was  suffer- 
ing, too.  Oh,  if  she  only  could.  But  she  couldn't.  It  wasn't 
piggishness.  She  didn't  mind  the  shop,  anything.  She'd 

scrub  floors,  wear  herself  to  the  bone  if •    It  was  just  he 

himself. 

"  I  can't.  It's  impossible.  I'm  sorry — very  sorry,"  she 
said,  with  feeling. 

"But,  my  God!  and  your  father  and  myself  have  it  all 
arranged.  You  can't  mean  it?  What'd  become  of  our  big 
business  plans — and  we  started  in  on  'em  already  ?  " 

She  hardened  again.  So  it  was  the  business  he  was  think- 
ing of,  and  not  of  her.  "  Mother  will  be  expecting  me.  I 
must  go  home,"  she  said. 

He  hurried  after  her,  bewildered.  "  But,  my  God,  I  love 
you.  You  keep  me  awake  at  night,"  he  muttered. 

She  walked  quickly  towards  the  bridge,  her  heart  throb- 
bing. Why  should  he  talk  to  her  of  love,  remind  her  of  it 
again,  make  her  feel  like  this,  tortured  and  miserable?  If 
he  spoke  of  it  again,  degraded  it  in  that  horrid  whine,  she'd 
hate  him. 

"You'd  not  turn  your  back  on  a  business  the  like  of 
which  Drumbawn  never  dreamt  of  ?  "  he  cried. 

Her  laugh  was  harsh.  So  she  was  to  be  bought  and  sold 
like  a  bundle  of  cloth. 

"  Your  father'll  have  a  word  to  say  on  all  this,"  he  said, 
angry  now.  "  The  whole  town  is  talking  about  it  ...  and 
me  going  in  to  tea  and  all.  I'd  be  made  a  laughing-stock 
of." 

"  Then  speak  to  father  and  not  to  me.    Good  night." 

She  rapidly  crossed  the  road.  Thank  God,  he  wasn't  fol- 
lowing her.  The  horrid  thing  was  that  she  felt  an  inclina- 
tion to  marry  him.  No,  it  couldn't  be  that.  It  was  just  that 


136  Vocations 

she  was  upset,  and  didn't  know  what  she  was  feeling  or 
thinking.  Father  Bernardine  must  advise  her.  If  she  could 
only  see  him  to-night.  But  not  her  mother.  No,  not  her 
mother.  .  .  .  One  of  the  shopmen  was  putting  up  the  shut- 
ters. The  hall  door  was  open.  .  .  .  Perhaps  she  could  get 
upstairs  without  meeting  anyone. 

"  It's  very  late  you  are,"  her  mother  said,  coming  out  of 
the  dining-room  at  the  back.  "  The  blood  is  near  turned 
in  me,  fearing  some  figaries  in  that  poor  child.  She's  all 
right  then,  and  you  able  to  leave  her  ?  " 

"  I  left  her  at  the  convent  door." 

"And  where,  may  I  ask,  were  you  gallivanting  ever 
since?"  Mrs.  Curtin  asked,  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  Walking  with  Joe  Duggan  down  by  the  river."  Kitty 
smiled. 

"WellJ'm  bet!"  Mrs.  Curtin,  horrified,  clasped  the  stair 
rail  for  support.  "  You,  my  own  daughter,  and  a  convent- 
bred  girl  at  that !  " 

"  He  asked  me  to  marry  him,  and  I  refused  him,"  Kitty 
said  tonelessly. 

"  Come  into  the  dining-room  and  have  a  drop  of  cocoa," 
said  her  mother,  in  a  low,  thrilled  tone,  with  a  suspicious 
look  at  the  connecting  door  to  the  shop.  "  The  cheek  of 
them  Duggans  is  past  belief.  I  was  just  making  some  for 
myself.  And  a  slice  of  cake  with  it'll  help  you  to  sleep 
after  the  trying  day  we  all  had.  Had  I  better  break  it  to 
your  father  to-night  or  take  him  leisurely  to-morrow  ?  Sure 
I  might  have  known  a  daughter  of  mine'd  have  the  grace  of 
God  about  her  if  she  was  out  late  itself." 

"I  can't  eat.  I  must  go  to  bed,"  Kftty  said,  with  a 
thoughtful  frown.  "Did  you  say,  mother,  that  the  mission 
at  Carrickdhu  was  beginning  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  I  did  then.  And  Father  Bernardine  came  down  by  the 
nieht  train,"  Mrs.  Curtin  said  questioningly.  "  It's  the  Don- 
levys  have  the  right  to  be  proud  of  that  son  of  their:;.  Fa- 
ther Tobin  came  in  himself  to  meet  him." 

"  I'd  like  to  go  to  it,"  Kitty  said  dully. 

"  Well,  well,  to  be  sure,  think  of  that  now ! '    Mrs.  Curtin 


V  ocations  137 

gave  a  pleased  look  at  the  ceiling.  "Your  father  was  say- 
ing something  about  a  little  trip  to  Lisdoonvarna,"  she  added 
doubtfully.  "  The  waters  are  very  good  there,  they  say, 
though  I'm  not  set  on  truck  of  the  kind  myself." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  to  Lisdoonvarna.  I  don't  want 
waters.  I  want  to  go  to  the  mission.  You'll  manage  it, 
won't  you,  mother  ?  " 

"Is  it  me  to  refuse  anything  to  a  daughter  of  mine?" 
Mrs.  Curtin  said  heartily.  "I'll  send  out  this  minute  and 
hire  Teige  Dillon's  covered  car  for  the  whole  week.  And 
I'll  get  round  that  father  of  yours  later.  Joe  Duggan,  in- 
deed !  Cock  him  up.  It's  the  good  God  Himself  was  your 
guardian  angel  this  night.  If  you  won't  eat  anything  run 
away  to  bed  with  you,  and  I'll  be  setting  everything  in  mo- 
tion." 

Kitty  climbed  limply  up  the  stairs.  She  looked  round  for 
Winnie  in  the  drawing-room,  then,  after  a  vacant  stare,  put 
out  the  gas  with  a  sigh.  Winnie  would  never  be  there  again 
to  quarrel  with.  .  .  . 

She  went  slowly  up  to  her  room  on  the  next  landing  and 
turned  on  the  gas.  It  was  so  unlike  Winnie  to  leave  her 
clothes  scattered  about.  She  gathered  them  up  and  put 
them  away  on  Winnie's  arm-chair.  She  must  have  been 
very  much  worried.  But  she'd  be  happy  now  up  there.  It 
was  so  quiet  and  restful  with  the  moon  shining  on  it.  ... 

She  took  off  some  of  her  clothes,  put  on  a  light  kimono 
and  let  down  her  hair.  It  wasn't  fine  like  Winnie's,  with 
beautiful  gold  lights,  though  there  was  more  of  it.  There 
was  no  one  now  to  care  what  kind  her  hair  was.  No  one — 
and  there  never  would  be  anyone.  She  brushed  her  hair 
mechanically  and  watched  the  movements  of  her  bare  arms 
in  the  glass.  Her  lips  trembled. 

If  he  had  only  known  her  he  might  never  have  gone  to 
Daisy. 

She  dropped  the  brush  on  her  lap,  clasped  her  fingers  be- 
hind her  neck,  pressed  her  elbows  tightly  against  her  breasts 
and  stared  desolately  at  the  glass  with  set  lips.  What  should 
she  do  ?  She  couldn't  stand  it — this  intolerable  aching  long- 
ing. Was  that  really  she  in  the  glass  ?  What  did  that  queer 


138  Vocations 

look  in  her  eyes  mean?  She  was  bad,  bad,  bad,  and  God 
had  deserted  her.  To-morrow  she'd  go  to  Father  Bernar- 
dine.  Could  she  even  confess  without  falling  again  into  sin? 
Could  she  ever  give  up  thinking  of  him?  Never,  never, 
never.  She  stood  up,  threw  back  her  hair,  and  looked  wildly 
round  the  room.  How  lucky  Winnie  had  gone.  She  would 
not  have  anyone  in  the  world  see  her  like  this — Winnie 
above  all.  Poor  child!  What  did  she  know  of  sin?  The 
empty  bed  made  the  room  so  lonely.  If  only — God.  what 
was  she  thinking  of?  How  could  she  be  so  wicked?  She 
mustn't  think  of  him  at  all — and  never  like  that.  Where 
had  her  strength  gone?  What  made  her  will  like  water? 
To-morrow — to-morrow  she'd  be  strong.  But  now — oh, 
God,  oh,  God!  .  .  . 

She  threw  herself  face  downwards  on  Winnie's  bed  and 
pressed  her  head  against  the  pillow.  He  must  be  hers.  He 
was  hers.  No  one  could  take  him  from  her.  She  had  only 
dreamt  about  Father  Brady  .  .  .  about  Daisy.  She  had 
never  been  to  see  the  priest  at  all.  They'd  live  .  .  .  where 
would  they  live  ?  Feverishly  she  tried  to  build  up  a  future. 
Only  by  keeping  her  eyes  shut  and  every  muscle  tense  could 
she  keep  off  some  horrible  danger  that  threatened  her.  In 
spite  of  everything,  she'd  have  happiness.  She  stretched 
out  her  arms  as  if  to  seize  it.  They  fell  limply  on  the  bed, 
and  she  lay  inert  .  .  .  without  hope,  without  feeling,  wait- 
ing engulf ment  by  the  black  walls  that  were  inexorably 
closing  in  on  her. 

She  woke  and  blinked  at  the  dreary  flicker  of  gas,  ghost- 
like in  the  warm,  golden  sunlight  that  flooded  the  room.  She 
had  a  number  of  detached  impressions :  Winnie's  motto  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  a  numbness  in  her  arm,  birds  singing  in 
the  strip  of  back  garden,  dew  sparkling  on  the  leaves,  the 
river  flashing  in  the  sun  through  the  break  in  the  houses  of 
Daunt's  Terrace.  Why  was  she  dressed  like  this?  And  in 
Winnie's  bed — not  really  in  bed  at  all?  And  the  gas  still 
lighted?  She  noted  the  time  by  the  alarm  clock  on  the 
mantelpiece.  Twenty-five  minutes  past  seven.  Her  mem- 
ory awoke.  A  warm  blush  suffused  her  face.  She  jumped 


Vocations  139 

out  of  bed  with  a  set  look.  It  was  a  temptation  of  the  devil 
to  which  she  had  listened.  There  was  nothing — there  never 
had  been  anything  but  her  own  wicked  heart.  What  a  fool 
she  had  been,  too.  If  only  she  didn't  feel  so  miserable.  But 
that  was  her  sin — a  mountain  of  sin.  She  put  out  the  gas, 
knelt  for  a  moment  before  the  little  altar  in  a  corner  of  the 
room,  shut  her  eyes  and  vehemently  said  an  act  of  contri- 
tion. She  tried  to  work  herself  up  to  some  warmth  of  feel- 
ing, but  there  was  none,  only  a  cold  lethargy  that  gave  her 
muttered  words  a  hollow  mocking  sound.  God  was  still 
angry  with  her.  Her  mother  would  soon  be  calling  out  to 
ask  if  she  was  ready  for  eight  o'clock  Mass.  She  got  up 
briskly,  smoothed  the  clothes  on  Winnie's  bed,  and  stood  for 
a  few  seconds  at  the  back  window.  Why  was  everything  so 
beautiful,  and  she  so  wretched?  Even  the  backs  of  the  old 
houses  in  Daunt's  Terrace  were  beautiful  in  this  light.  The 
birds  were  happy,  while — but  she  mustn't  think.  She 
dragged  a  sponge  bath  from  the  alcove,  poured  into  it  a  jug 
of  cold  water.  How  she  hated  cold  water,  but  Peggy 
wouldn't  bring  hot  water  unless  she  was  asked  for  it.  She 
couldn't  ask  her  to-day.  Besides,  cold  water  would  be  a 
punishment.  She  took  off  her  clothes  and  hesitated  over  her 
chemise.  Was  Father  Brady  wrong,  after  all,  in  saying  it 
was  all  nonsense  to  wear  a  covering  in  one's  bath,  and  the 
nuns  right?  Winnie  always  did;  Winnie  never  sinned. 
Perhaps  her  own  self-indulgence  was  the  cause  of  ...  but 
it  was  too  horribly  uncomfortable.  She  compromised  by 
slipping  off  her  chemise  and  stepping  into  the  bath  with  her 
eyes  shut.  The  first  thrill  of  the  cold  water  drove  away 
her  morbid  fears.  Her  skin  tingled  pleasantly  as  the  water 
fell  on  it.  What  had  come  over  her  last  night  and  all  yes- 
terday? She  had  been  just  playing  the  fool.  The  birds 
were  shouting  it  at  her.  The  sun  was  mocking  her,  dancing 
there  on  the  looking-glass.  The  only  remedy  was  not  to 
think.  One  could  keep  those  thoughts  out  of  one's  mind  by 
fighting  against  them  and  praying.  She  stood  up,  got  out  of 
the  bath,  and  scrubbed  herself  dry  with  a  rough  towel. 
What  beautiful  skin  she  had  .  .  like  soft  velvet.  There 


140  Vocations 

was  nothing  like  cold  water  to  give  it  that  warm  glow.  She 
shuddered,  dropped  the  towel  and  began  to  dress  quickly. 
She  mustn't  think  of  her  body.  That  only  pulled  one  down. 
It  was  the  soul  that  mattered,  and  hers  was  stained  and 
ugly.  She'd  say  her  morning  prayers  while  she  dressed.  It 
wasn't  right,  of  course,  but  it  would  keep  her  mind  off 
things,  and  she  could  say  them  again  in  the  church.  She 
looked  at  her  dress  with  horror.  She  had  forgotten  her 
prayers  last  night.  No  wonder  .  .  . 

A  heavy  step  on  the  stairs  made  her  throw  on  her  clothes 
anyhow. 

"  Are  you  ready,  Kitty  ?  Are  you  ready  ?  "  her  mother 
shouted  from  outside  the  door. 

"  One  minute."    Kitty  made  a  dive  for  her  hat. 

"Well,  well,  if  you  haven't  your  bed  made  and  all/'  Mrs. 
Curtin  said,  throwing  open  the  door.  "  And  a  bath,  too. 
Tis  you  have  the  courage  on  a  holiday.  Peggy  spoke  of  a 
cup  of  tea,  but  I  said  you'd  be  sure  to  be  going  to  the  altar." 

"  Not  to-day,"  Kitty  said,  with  a  vivid  blush. 

"  It's  that  man  last  night  I  don't  doubt.  'Twas  enough  to 
disturb  any  girl,"  her  mother  said,  looking  at  her  keenly. 
"  I'm  off  communion  myself  this  morning,  with  all  the  back 
talk  I  had  with  your  father  over  it  last  night." 

"Oh,  Joe  Duggan,"  Kitty  said,  with  a  dry  smile.  Her 
mother  didn't  suspect  then.  "  I  haven't  even  thought  of 
him,"  she  added. 

"  And  why  yould  you?  But  he  weighed  heavy  on  me  till 
near  two  o'clock  this  morning.  I  never  seen  your  father  in 
a  more  cantankerous  temper.  It  took  me  near  four  hours  to 
reduce  him  to  sense.  Not  but  what  he  has  a  black  fit  on  him 
this  morning,  and  he's  placing  the  hall  below  now  like  a 
tiger  in  a  cage.  Take  no  notice  of  him  and  'twill  wear  itself 
out.  Us  going  to  the  mission  was  the  last  straw,"  Mrs.  Cur- 
tin  said,  with  a  note  of  triumph,  as  she  led  the  way  down  the 
stairs. 

"  Oh,  the  mission  ?  "  Kitty  said  vaguely.  She  had  forgot- 
ten all  about  that  too.  And  Father  Bernardine!  He'd 


Vocations  141 

make  her  friends  again  with  God,  she  thought,  without  en- 
thusiasm. 

"  Good  morning,  father,"  she  said,  addressing  the  back  of 
Tom  Curtin's  grey,  Sunday,  summer  suit. 

"Gallivanting  off  to  missions  on  a  holiday — one  of  the 
busiest  days  in  the  shop,"  he  said,  with  a  glare  at  Johanna. 

"  It's  a  fine  day  we'll  have  for  it,  glory  be  to  God,"  Mrs. 
Curtin  said  cheerfully. 

"I'm  disappointed  in  you,  Kitty,  bitterly  disappointed," 
he  said. 

"  There's  the  last  bell.  Do  you  want  to  have  us  late, 
Tom?  Didn't  we  talk  it  all  out  to  the  dregs  last  night?  If 
you  have  no  respect  for  your  wife  itself,  you  might  keep 
your  word  to  your  priest,"  Mrs.  Curtin  said,  with  a  virtu- 
ous toss  of  her  head. 

Kitty  was  conscious  of  his  disappointment  as  he  strode 
along,  a  few  paces  in  front  of  herself  and  her  mother.  She 
had  resented  his  plans  for  her,  but  now  she  felt  bitter  with 
herself  for  having  given  him  pain.  She  had  no  sympathy 
with  his  views,  and  no  regret  for  not  conforming  to  them, 
but  his  pathetic,  forlorn  gait  gave  her  a  new  weapon  against 
herself.  She  had  offended  God  and  hurt  her  father.  She 
must  atone  in  some  way  for  her  wickedness.  She  had  a 
vague,  but  not  unpleasant  sense  of  being  unutterably  wicked, 
and  a  vague  wish  to  please  everyone.  Then,  for  no  cause 
at  all,  or  because  the  river,  in  the  shade  of  the  bridge, 
flowed  dark  and  ruthless,  she  had  a  sudden  feeling  of  revolt. 
She  was  tossed  to  and  fro  in  a  current  of  cross  purposes. 
No  matter  what  she  did  she  was  certain  to  break  her  head 
against  a  rock.  Self-pity  came  to  her  aid,  and  she  had  be- 
gun to  taste  the  pleasure  of  seeing  herself  as  a  mangled 
corpse,  when  her  mother  said  in  an  impressive  whisper : 

"  There's  Dr.  Thornton  turning  in  at  the  chapel  gate. 
What  a  fine  figure  of  a  man  he  is,  to  be  sure." 

A  whole  train  of  feelings  seemed  to  have  been  set  afire  in 
her.  Mass  was  a  torture.  No  matter  how  stie  shut  her 
eyes,  set  her  lips,  clenched  her  hands  and  prayed,  his  image; 
came;  and  a  disturbing  feeling  persisted  behind  her  most 


142  Vocations 

determined,  No,  no.  The  devil  was  in  possession  of  her 
soul  and  God  could  give  only  a  temporary  respite.  It  was 
hardly  even  a  respite.  It  was  more  like  a  lull  in  a  violent 
toothache,  with  its  constant  fear  of  the  next  throb  of  the 
nerve.  When  a  dazed  forgetfulness  came  for  a  moment  she 
was  sure  to  look  unconsciously  at  the  second  seat  under  the 
gallery,  and  the  mere  sight  of  the  back  of  his  head  made  the 
pain  begin  anew.  Oh !  if  she  could  only  go  to  confession  to 
Father  Bernardine  at  once,  he  would  give  her  some  peace. 

She  escaped  breakfast  with  her  father  and  mother  on  the 
plea  of  a  headache,  but  vehemently  rejected  her  mother's 
suggestion  that  they  should  defer  their  visit  to  Carrickdhu 
till  the  evening  when  the  mission  would  really  begin. 

"  But  Father  Bernardine  will  preach  at  twelve  o'clock 
Mass,"  she  said. 

"  A  kind  of  start-off  because  of  the  feast  that's  in  it,  but 
not  the  real  beginning,"  Mrs.  Curtin  explained  lucidly. 

"  Then,  of  course,  we  must  go.  My  headache  was  noth- 
ing at  all,  and  went  away  with  a  cup  of  tea." 

"  The  tea  is  great,  glory  be  to  God,"  Mrs.  Curtin  said 
piously,  and  added,  with  a  complacent  look  at  Kitty's  hag- 
gard face,  "God  had  a  hand  in  it,  no  doubt.  He  couldn't 
let  you  have  a  headache,  and  you  wanting  to  hear  that 
saintly  man." 

She  would  not  let  her  mother  out  of  her  sight  during  the 
few  hours  before  the  start  for  Carrickdhu.  She  mustn't  be 
alone,  nor  think.  She  initiated  conversations  and  spoke  fev- 
erishly. In  the  stuffy  covered  car  she  never  allowed  the  talk 
to  lapse. 

"  I  don't  know  when  I  enjoyed  as  pleasant  a  morning  out 
of  the  shop  before,"  her  mother  said  graciously,  as  they  got 
out  of  the  car  in  the  chapel  yard  at  Carrickdhu.  "  I  doubt  if 
I  could  give  you  up  to  anyone  but  God,  and  you  having  such 
a  lively  turn  for  the  talk." 

The  heat  of  the  little  church,  the  smell  of  frieze,  the  buzz 
of  innumerable  insects,  the  drone  of  Father  Tobin's  voice 
soothed  Kitty  into  a  half  sleep.  God  was  no  longer  angry 
with  her.  She  heard  His  pleased  voice  in  an  occasional 


Vocations  143 

bird  note  that  pierced  joyfully  the  drowsy  hum  of  bees  and 
bluebottles,  in  the  tinkling  of  the  little  handbell  at  the  Sanc- 
tus  and  Consecration.  Everything  seemed  so  holy  and 
homely:  the  whitewashed  walls  with  little  rivulets  of  green 
mould  beneath  the  windows;  the  Stations  of  the  Cross 
(their  gaudy  colours  subdued  by  damp  stains)  askew  in 
their  dilapidated  black  frames;  the  worn  red  carpet  on  the 
altar ;  Father  Tobin's  long  white  hair ;  the  crumpled  sur- 
plices of  the  two  disheveled  servers;  the  hoarse  whisper  of 
prayer  from  the  crowded  congregation ;  and  the  calm,  beau- 
tiful figure  of  Father  Bernardine,  in  black  soutane  and 
white  bands,  kneeling  at  a  prie-Dieu  inside  the  altar  rail. 
His  big  brown  eyes  seemed  to  see  into  infinity  with  calm- 
ness and  certainty.  He  would  be  sure  to  know  .  .  .  to  be 
able  to  guide  her. 

The  first  notes  of  his  voice  thrilled  her.  "  Mary,  mother 
of  all  purity." 

He  was  preaching  at  her.  He  seemed  to  know  all  her  sin 
and  her  shame.  He  abased  her  to  the  depths,  lifted  her  up 
gently,  poured  oil  into  her  wounds,  consoled  her  so  ten- 
derly that  she  was  almost  glad  she  had  fallen.  .  .  . 

She  woke  with  a  start  to  her  mother's : 

"  We'd  best  be  going  now  or  the  beef '11  be  spoiled." 

The  church  was  empty  save  for  an  old  woman  in  a  blue 
hooded  cloak,  who  petitioned  God  with  raised  hands  and  a 
swaying  body. 

"  He  was  wonderful,"  Kitty  said  breathlessly. 

"  What  with  the  heat  and  one  thing  and  another,  I  didn't 
hear  him  as  well  as  I  might — I  doubt  but  the  sleep  overcame 
me.  But  he  sounded  grand  entirely,"  Mrs.  Curtin  said  with 
content. 

Her  mother  had  to  bear  the  burthen  of  the  conversation 
on  the  way  home,  for  Kitty  was  hugging  her  new-found 
hope. 

With  a  few  lapses  she  managed  to  cling  to  it  till  Father 
Bernardine  plunged  her  into  despair  by  his  evening  sermon. 
She  had  heard  many  sermons  on  sin  during  her  life,  and 
they  had  left  her  unmoved.  But  this  showed  her  herself  in 


144  Vocations 

all  her  black  hideousness.  He  was  terrible.  Anger,  con- 
tempt, loathing  were  hurled  at  her  as  she  sat  cowering  beside 
her  mother.  She  had  defiled  her  body,  torn  with  anguish 
the  hearts  of  God,  His  blessed  Mother  and  all  the  angels 
and  saints.  He  drew  a  dozen  pictures  of  her,  one  viler  than 
the  other. 

But  worse  was  to  come.  On  three  successive  nights  he 
painted  in  lurid  colours,  death,  judgment,  hell.  Her  death 
— the  death  of  a  depraved  sinner.  Her  judgment.  Her 
hell. 

She  hated  coming  to  the  church,  but  Father  Bernardine 
drew  her  with  the  fascination  of  a  basilisk.  The  accusing, 
menacing  figure  with  glowing  eyes,  more  beautiful  than 
man,  was,  she  felt,  God's  avenging  angel.  He  had  no  pity, 
no  softness  in  him.  He  was  hard  and  ruthless  as  the  angry 
God  she  had  offended. 

The  journeys  to  and  fro  with  her  mother  were  torture. 
She  had  to  sit  through  long  discourses  on  the  family  history 
of  the  Donlevys  for  three  generations,  the  shortcomings  of 
the  MacMahons,  the  oddities  of  Father  Tobin's  niece  and 
the  happiness  of  Winnie,  while,  all  the  time,  she  was  pre- 
occupied with  her  soul.  She  envied  her  mother's  placidity, 
her  detachment  from  the  harrowing  sermons,  her  spiritual 
serenity,  her  idea  of  confession  as  a  mere  incident  to  be  got 
over  at  the  most  convenient  opportunity.  "  He  gave  it  to 
them  to-night  and  more  power  to  him,"  was  Mrs.  Curtin's 
comment  on  Father  Bernardine's  fiercest  denunciation.  If 
her  mother  only  knew  that  every  word  the  priest  said  was 
directed  against  her  sinful  daughter! 

Her  mother's  questions  invariably  found  Kitty  in  the 
middle  of  acts  of  contrition,  and  she  could  only  reply  with  a 
vague,  "  Yes,  mother."  Mrs.  Curtin  advised  her  to  take  the 
mission  more  lightly.  There  was  reason  in  everything,  even 
in  a  mission,  and  there  was  no  call  to  let  it  interfere  with  a 
pleasant  talk  in  and  out  in  the  car.  But  with  sin,  death,  hell 
and  judgment  staring  her  in  the  face,  Kitty  wanted  to  talk 
to  no  one  except  Father  Bernardine,  and  she  was  afraid  to 
talk  to  him.  She  avoided  her  mother  as  much  as  possible, 


Vocations  145 

refused  to  go  and  see  Winnie  at  the  convent,  and  spent 
several  hours  every  day  in  the  church  at  Drumbawn.  Prayer 
brought  her  no  consolation.  She  alternated  between  an 
active  fight  against  temptation  and  a  numb  hopelessness. 
Her  only  moments  of  peace  were  when  physical  and  mental 
fatigue  broke  down  her  watchfulness,  when  she  forgot  all 
about  prayer  and  temptation  and  indulged  in  day  dreams. 
But  when  she  was  about  to  clutch  at  happiness.,  she  remem- 
bered Father  Bernardine's  sermons  and  realized  that  she 
was  on  the  brink  of  the  abyss — another  step  and  she  should 
be  lost  for  ever.  Twice  she  walked  out  to  Carrickdhu 
alone,  with  the  intention  of  going  to  confession,  but  each 
time  she  shirked  it  and  almost  enjoyed  the  walk  home  by 
the  short  cut  along  the  river  bank.  With  the  half-fearful 
sense  of  relief  with  which  she  once  escaped  a  necessary  ap- 
pointment with  a  dentist,  she  pulled  loose-strife  and  corn- 
flowers and  watched  the  salmon  at  rest  below  the  weir  near 
Cluny  bridge. 

Father  Bernardine's  sermon  on  heaven  on  Thursday  even- 
ing revived  hope;  and  on  Friday  morning  about  eleven 
o'clock  she  was  inside  his  confessional,  awaiting  the  open- 
ing of  the  slide  with  a  fluttering  heart.  Shame,  despair, 
fear,  pride  moved  her  in  turn.  She  could  hear  the  murmur 
of  her  mother's  voice,  making  her  confession  at  the  opposite 
side  of  the  box.  What  a  long  time  she  was.  She  tried  to 
pass  her  sins  again  in  review,  but  it  was  all  a  confused  med- 
ley. She  must  be  the  blackest  of  sinners  to  feel  like  this. 
She  half  rose  from  her  knees  and  dropped  down  again  with 
a  sigh.  She  could  not  escape  God  in  the  end,  and  might  as 
well  face  Him  now.  Besides,  her  mother  would  be  sure  to 
notice.  And  if  one's  sins  were  as  red  as  scarlet,  they  would 
be  made  whiter  than  snow. 

The  slide  was  pushed  back  with  a  little  click.  She  asked  a 
blessing  in  an  agonized  whisper.  She  was  conscious  of  the 
long  slender  fingers  that  imparted  the  blessing,  of  the  beau- 
tifully modulated  voice,  so  calm  and  tender  now.  As  she 
said  the  Confiteor  she  stole  a  glance  at  his  face.  The  aus- 
terity had  all  gone ;  and  the  eyes  that  could  be  so  harsh  ex- 


146  Vocations 

pressed  infinite  kindness  and  sympathy.  She  faltered 
through  her  confession,  hesitating  and  stumbling  over 
words.  He  would  never1  understand,  she  thought  despair- 
ingly. 

"  Help  me,  Father,"  she  said  brokenly. 

He  put  one  or  two,  questions  to  which  she  replied  doubt- 
fully. She  tried  to  explain,  but  he  stopped  her. 

"  But  you  don't  understand,"  she  said. 

"  Perfectly,"  he  said,  with  decision.  "  Put  it  all  out  of 
your  mind  now.  The  past  is  a  closed  book.  But  you  must 
be  careful — very  careful.  The  descent  to  hell  is  pleasant 
and  easy.  God  has  providentially  rescued  you  now — mirac- 
ulously almost." 

"  God  has  forgiven  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  You  are  firmly  resolved  never  to  sin  again  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes,"  she  said  emphatically,  hoping  by  the  force 
of  her  voice  to  drive  away  a  vision  which  his  words  evoked. 
"  But  I  need  help,  oh,  so  badly." 

"  If  I  am  to  help  you  you  must  tell  me  more  about  your 
life.  I've  noticed  your  devotion  to  the  mission.  It  was  your 
good  mother  who  accompanied  you  every  evening  ?  " 

"  She  has  just  been  to  confession  to  you." 

"  Ah !  "  he  said,  with  a  meditative  smile.  "  Let  us  begin 
with  school." 

He  listened  patiently  and  attentively.  "  You  have  much 
to  be  grateful  for,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  when  she  finished. 
"  Your  most  excellent  mother — the  good  nuns — everything. 
Naturally  the  devil  would  do  his  best  to  enter  into  such  a 
paradise.  He  first  took  the  form  of  that  man  at  school.  An 
art-master,  you  said?  Male  teachers  are  always  a  danger 
and  should  never  be  allowed  in  convent  schools.  And  this 
doctor?  An  admirable  man,  I  have  no  doubt — that  is  the 
subtlety  of  Satan.  He  takes  the  most  attractive  shape  in 
order  to  entrap  the  senses.  And  the  result  was  what  always 
comes  of  those  temptations  of  the  devil  if  we  neglect  the 
safeguards  with  which  God  has  provided  us — sin,  remorse, 
pain,  misery." 

"  What  am  I  to  do?  "  Kitty  asked  meekly. 


Vocations  147 

She  had  a  horrid  desire  to  live  over  again  these  tempta- 
tions of  the  devil  and  could  only  overcome  them  by  clench- 
ing her  finger-nails  against  her  palm. 

"  We  shall  come  to  that,"  he  said.  "  It  wasn't  your  real 
self  that  submitted  to  these  temptations.  That  is  strong  and 
pure.  Your  whole  life  has  shown  it.  But  the  strongest  of 
us  have  some  less  well-defined  spot — our  heel  of  Achilles — 
a  chink  in  our  armour  through  which  the  devil  enters  if  we 
neglect  our  guard  for  a  moment." 

"  I  am  weak  and  sinful  throughout,"  Kitty  said  miserably. 

"  Humility  is  a  good  sign,"  he  said,  with  an  encouraging 
smile.  "  And  your  remorse  is  a  proof  of  how  you  really 
treasure  holy  purity.  Now  for  the  remedy.  You  would  be 
absolutely  safe  in  a  convent." 

"  Oh,  not  that,"  she  shuddered. 

"  Where  else  will  you  have  such  safeguards  ?  Routine, 
the  regular  life,  will  bring  ease  to  your  bruised  heart. 
Prayer  will  ward  off  temptation.  A  little  mortification,  per- 
haps, to  strengthen  you  against  the  wiles  of  the  devil.  And 
the  possibilities  of  temptation  will  certainly  be  less.  Why, 
it  is  the  promised  land." 

"  But  I  have  no  vocation." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that."  His  smile  was  confident. 
"  Your  remorse  over  this  sin  of  thought.  I  can  read  desta- 
tation  of  sins  of  the  flesh  in  your  face,  in  your  voice.  Don't 
you  feel  a  sort  of  natural  repugnance?" 

"  I  don't  know."  She  blushed  vividly.  "  No,"  she  cor- 
rected at  once.  But  then  it  wasn't  her  feelings  that  mattered, 
but  her  will,  she  thought.  "  I  don't  know,"  she  added,  with 
a  sigh  of  doubt. 

"  But  you  must  know.  Can't  you  read  your  own  soul  ?  " 
he  said  a  little  severely.  "  You  refused  to  marry  a  promi- 
nent business  man.  You  did  not  like  him,  you  say.  What 
is  this  dislike  but  a  shrinking  from  marriage — its  coarse- 
ness— its  indelicacy?" 

"  Oh,"  she  said  doubtfully,  all  her  curiosity  awake.  She 
felt  her  face  grow  hot  and  hotter.  She  saw  even  Joe  Dug- 
gan  in  a  sort  of  aura.  .  .  .  But  this  was  madness.  Why, 


148  Vocations 

she'd  die  before  she'd  marry  him.  It  was  the  devil  tempting 
her  again. 

"  I  hate  marriage,"  she  said. 

But  her  vehemence  brought  her  no  comfort.  She  listened 
vaguely  to  a  long  dissertation  on  the  beauties  of  virginity. 
It  raised  men  and  women  to  the  angelic  plane.  .  .  .  She 
felt  cold  and  lonely.  She  had  not  rejected  marriage,  mar- 
riage had  rejected  her.  But  it  was  all  the  same  now.  She'd 
have  this  empty  desolate  feeling  for  ever.  Convents  were 
for  such  as  she.  She  would  hide  away  her  broken  heart  be- 
hind a  guimpe  and  veil.  And  she  must  make  some  atone- 
ment to  God  for  her  wickedness. 

He  said,  austerely,  "  It  is  the  will  of  God  that  you  should 
take  the  veil." 

"  I  suppose  it  is,"  she  assented,  with  a  sinking  heart. 
"And  there  will  be  no  more  horrible  temptations?"  she 
asked  desperately. 

"  In  a  holy  convent !  "  he  chided  her ;  "  with  prayer  and 
my  direction,  my  dear  child — none." 


Chapter p 

FATHER  BURKE  and  Father  Dunne  knew  that 
Father  Brady  was  in  a  temper.  It  was  evident 
in  an  occasional  gleam  from  under  his  shaggy 
eyebrows,  a  tightening  of  his  lips  and  a  certain 
sharpness  in  dealing  with  their  contributions  to  the  con- 
versation. From  his  transparent  efforts  to  be  polite 
to  the  guest  they  also  knew  that  Father  Bernardine  was 
the  cause.  Already  there  were  traces  of  sarcasm  in  the 
parish  priest's  somewhat  excessively  deferential  voice,  and 
Father  Burke  looked  forward  with  interest  to  the  breaking 
down  of  the  dam.  Father  Brady  was  seldom  able  to  restrain 
the  free  expression  of  his  thoughts  beyond  the  custard  and 
stewed  apples.  When  he  had  the  bishop  to  dinner,  his  sense 
of  duty  as  a  host  invariably  disappeared  with  the  boiled 
mutton  and  caper  sauce.  Yet  here  was  the  whiskey  and  hot 
water  on  the  table  before  he  had  taken  down  this  fop  of  a 
missioner  a  single  peg.  Was  the  old  man  growing  dotty? 
or  could  he  be  intending  to  ask  the  fellow  to  give  a  mission 
in  the  town?  It  was  bad  enough  to  have  him  poaching 
round  at  Carrickdhu  and  at  the  Mercy  Convent,  but  to 
bring  a  Romeo  like  him  into  the  town.  .  .  .  Father  Burke 
looked  for  sympathy  to  Father  Dunne,  but  Father  Dunne 
was  stolidly  intent  on  squeezing  a  lemon  into  his  punch. 

"So  the  mission  is  over,"  Father  Brady  said  gruffly, 
looking  askance  at  Father  Bernardine,  who  was  watering 
his  claret. 

"  Most  successfully  over,  thanks  be  to  God,"  said  Father 
Bernardine.  "  Allow  me,"  he  added,  moving  the  hot-water 
jug  towards  Father  Burke. 

"  No,  thanks,"  Father  Burke  said,  with  a  smille  of  superi- 
ority. "I  never  drink." 

Father  Dunne  smiled  at  his  glass. 
149 


150  Vocations 

"The  pride  of  the  cold-water  tap,"  Father  Brady  said, 
with  a  shrug. 

"  A  little  wine  for  the  stomach's  sake  ?  "  Father  Bernar- 
dine  said,  with  solemn  playfulness. 

"  Though  it's  nothing  to  the  sin  of  watering  good  claret." 
Father  Brady  gave  a  moody  look  at  Father  Bernardine's 
glass.  "  Tom  Curtin's  best,  too.  A  successful  mission,  in- 
deed !  "  he  added  fiercely.  "  What  did  you  do  with  his 
daughters  ?  Tell  me  that  now." 

Father  Bernardine  smiled,  with  a  tolerant  reserve. 
"He  hasn't  sent  the  second  one  into  the  convent?"  Fa- 
ther Dunne  said,  with  a  faint  show  of  interest. 

The  knife  with  which  Father  Burke  was  preparing  a 
lemon  for  lemonade  slipped  and  cut  his  finger. 
"  Kitty  ?     Surely  not  ?  " 

He  frowned  at  Father  Bernardine  while  winding  his  nap- 
kin nervously  round  his  finger. 

"  Packing  her  off  to-morrow  or  the  next  day,"  Father 
Brady  said  angrily. 

"I'm  not  surprised  at  Brady,"  said  Father  Dunne,  bal- 
ancing his  spoon  on  the  edge  of  his  glass.  "  She  was  his 
only  penitent,  one  might  say.  But  where  do  you  come  in? 
She  wasn't  one  of  your  string?  "  he  added,  with  a  question- 
ing look  at  Father  Burke. 

"  I  naturally  take  an  interest  in  everyone  in  the  parish," 
Father  Burke  said  loftily. 

"  There's  news  for  us,  Brady,"  Father  Dunne  chuckled. 
"  He'll  be  taking  his  share  of  the  workhouse  calls  next." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  it  ?  "  Father  Brady  said,  glower- 
ing at  the  missioner. 

"  My  good  friend,  my  dear  friend,"  Father  Bernardine 
mildly  remonstrated.  "  You  mustn't  blame  me  if  your  pa- 
rishioners have  vocations." 

"And    he    certainly    can't    blame    Burke,"    said    Father 

Dunne  with  a  grin.    "Brady  has  a  down  on  him  over  the 

convent,  so  he  tries  to  keep  the  girls  outside  it — except  a 

few  he's  tired  of." 

"  Vocation !    What's  a  vocation  ?  "  Father  Brady  snapped 


Vocations  151 

contemptuously.  "  A  young  girl  gets  a  fancy  for  a  minute, 
and  you  shut  her  up  in  a  convent  for  life.  She's  nearly  sure 
to  change  her  mind  the  next  minute,  but  there  she  is  behind 
four  walls  with  the  door  locked  and  the  key  gone." 

"  There  are  too  many  women  in  the  world,"  said  Father 
Dunne,  with  gloom.  "It's  a  good  job  to  get  some  of  'em 
put  safely  out  of  the  way." 

Father  Bernardine  said,  "  A  vocation  is  a  positive  prompt- 
ing of  divine  grace  in  the  choice  of  a  state  of  life." 

"  Humph.  The  prompting  of  divine  grace  most  young 
girls  have  is  to  get  married."  Father  Brady  meditatively 
sipped  his  punch. 

"You  underestimate  the  spiritual  side  of  a  woman's  na- 
ture, her  longing  for  Divine  purity "  Father  Bernar- 
dine began,  with  one  of  his  favourite  pulpit  gestures. 

"  I'll  be  sixty-two  in  October,  and  I  didn't  walk  through 
the  world  with  my  eyes  shut,"  Father  Brady  interrupted 
dryly.  "  I  don't  deny  there  are  sports  among  women — I've 
known  a  dog  in  my  time  that  wouldn't  look  at  a  bone.  But 
what  most  women  want  is  a  Jhusband,  and  what  all  of  'em 
want  is  a  child." 

"  I  deny  it  absolutely."  Father  Bernardine  set  his  thin 
lips.  "  Woman  is  a  temple  of  virginity,  of  holy  purity.  She 
fell,  of  course,  with  Eve  but  the  fall  is  more  than  counter- 
balanced by  divine  grace.  There  is  sometimes  a  struggle 
with  her  lower  nature,  that  malign  legacy  of  Eve's  sin.  But 
with  the  example  of  our  Blessed  Mother  and  the  saints  to 
sustain  her,  and  the  counsel  of  St.  Paul,  and  the  aspirations 
of  her  higher  nature  fortified  by  prayer  and  grace " 

"  And  clap-trap,"  Father  Brady  interrupted.  "  A  few  ot 
'em'll  be  foolish  enough  to  go  into  a  convent.  No  wonder 
so  manv  of  'em  go  half  mad." 

"  Don't  be  too  hard  on  the  poor  things,"  Father  Dunne 
said.  "  It's  pleasant  enough  sort  of  an  asylum  for  a  dis- 
appointed woman.  They  can't  all  get  married,  and  it's  not 
what  you  might  call  convenient  to  have  a  child  without. 
What  harm  are  they  doing  to  anyone?  If  it  weren't  for  the 
breakfast  I  get  at  the  convent  every  morning  I'd  be  dead  of 


152  locations 

indigestion  long  ago.    As  long  as  they're  able  to  cook  lightly 
I'm  all  for  'em." 

Father  Bernardine's  irritation  with  Father  Brady's  inter- 
ruption gave  way  to  an  expression  of  sadness. 

"  We  can't  rival  your  good  confreres  in  facetiousness 
about  holy  things,"  he  said  to  a  gloomy  Father  Burke  who 
was  toying  with  the  rind  of  a  lemon. 

"  Oh,  Brady  and  Dunne  will  have  their  little  jokes,"  Fa- 
ther Burke  said,  with  a  sickly  smile.  "  I'm  all  with  you,  of 
course,  Father  Bernardine.  Girls  hurried  into  unsuitable 
marriages  by  inconsiderate  parents!  Nice  girls  brought  up 
in  a  genteel  convent — nice  genteel  girls  forced  to  marry 
rough  boors!  Happily  it  makes  them  recognize  their  real 
vocation  and  seek  the  solace  of  a  convent.  Would  you  be- 
lieve it  that  her  father  wanted  that  little  girl  we  were  speak- 
ing of,  Kitty  Curtin,  to  marry  a  regular  clodhopper?  You 
must  know  him?  That  hulking  son  of  Mike  Duggan?"  he 
added,  his  lips  trembling  with  indignation. 

"  She  seems  to  have  chosen  the  better  part."  Father  Ber- 
nardine's tone  was  one  of  complete  detachment. 

Father  Burke  frowned. 

"  It's  true  about  her,  I  suppose?  "  he  asked,  with  an  ex- 
aggerated assumption  of  indifference. 

"Your  good  parish  priest  says  so."  Father  Bernardine 
smiled  serenely.  "  Indeed,  there  is  no  secret  about  it,  con- 
fessional or  otherwise.  On  my  way  here  I  called  to  see  her 
good  mother  who  spoke  freely  about  it." 

"  Between  the  two  girls  it'll  be  a  good  lump  for  the  con- 
vent— they'll  be  able  to  build  the  new  chapel  now  that  they 
have  the  plans  of.  We'd  have  got  more  out  of  'em  by  mar- 
rying 'em  off,  eh,  Brady?  Nuns  are  a  caution,  to  be  sure." 
Father  Dunne  gave  a  shrug  of  resignation,  taking  a  sip  of 
punch  to  help  him. 

"  Between  her  ass  of  a  mother  and  yourself,  ye  have  made 
a  nice  mess  of  the  poor  girl,"  Father  Brady  said,  sweeping 
the  claret  bottle  towards  the  missioner. 

Father  Bernardine  moved  the  bottle  back  to  the  centre  of 
the  table  with  an  assured  smile. 


V  ocations  153 

"Don't,"  he  said  humbly,  "confuse  weak  instruments 
with  the  mighty  river  of  Divine  grace." 

"  My  God,  ye  took  the  little  girl  on  the  rebound — before 
she  had  time  to  find  her  feet  again,"  said  Father  Brady 
savagely.  "  You  know  it  well,  Donlevy." 

Father  Bernardine  shut  his  lips  and  stared  impassively  at 
the  tablecloth. 

"  Leave  all  women  to  God.  As  He  denied  'em  common 
sense,  no  doubt  He  has  some  plan  for  dealing  with  'em." 
Father  Dunne  cheerfully  mixed  himself  a  little  extra  punch 
in  a  wineglass. 

"It's  a  queer  fool  God'd  be  if  He  was  responsible  for 
every  idiocy  that's  put  to  His  credit,"  Father  Brady  said, 
with  a  glare  at  Father  Bernardine. 

"It's  not  often  that  I  can  agree  with  my  parish  priest  in 
spiritual  matters,  but  I  really  think  there  is  something  in 
what  he  said  of  the  rebound."  Father  Burke's  tone  had  a 
blend  of  condescension  and  anxiety.  "I  bow,  of  course,  to 
your  superior  judgment,  Father  Bernardine.  I  can't  pre- 
tend to  your  experience.  Still,  in  my  own  small  way,  I 
have  some  knowledge  of  souls.  There  was  a  revulsion 
from  this  Duggan.  Is  the  idea  of  the  convent  a  mere  ex- 
tension of  this  feeling  of  revulsion — a  refuge  as  it  were, 
from  this  purely  human  antipathy;  or,  is  it  the  real  divine 
call,  on  the  signs  of  which  we  can,  so  to  speak,  lay  our 
finger?" 

"If  the  young  lady  consulted  me,  surely  you  don't  expect 
me  to  discuss  her?"  Father  Bernardine  said  equably,  but 
with  a  half -reproving  smile. 

"Ye're  making  a  lot  of  bother  about  a  girl  going  into  a 
convent."  Father  Dunne  yawned.  "Nine  chances  out  of 
ten  she'll  regret  it.  But  if  she  stops  out,  she'll  very  likely 
regret  that,  too,  married  or  single.  So  where's  the  odds? 
Let's  have  a  walk  down  by  the  river,  in  God's  name." 

"I'm  not  asking  your  opinion,  I  am  merely  giving  mine," 
Father  Burke  said  sharply  to  Father  Bernardine,  ignoring 
Father  Dunne's  interruption  with  a  contemptuous  shrug. 
"I'm  an  outsider  and  can  speak  freely.  I've  known  the 


154  Vocations 

young  lady,  however,  for  some  considerable  time,  and  I've 
never  noticed  any  of  the  signs  to  which  I  have  referred — 
which  were  so  conspicuously  present  in  her  sister  Winnie, 
for  example.  A  strange  confessor  might  easily  be  misled. 
One  cannot  be  too  careful  in  things  of  the  spirit;  and  the 
consequences  of  a  mistake  might  be  a  lifelong  misery  for 
the  poor  child." 

"Quite  true,  quite  true.  Very  interesting,  indeed,"  Father 
Bernardine  said,  with  a  smile  that  suggested  the  possession 
of  superior  knowledge.  "I  think  I  will  have  a  little  more 
of  your  very  excellent  claret,  Father  Brady." 

Father  Burke  bit  his  lip  and  frowned.  "Her  parish  priest, 
at  least,  might  do  something,"  he  said  pettishly.  "Though 
she  hasn't  consulted  you  itself,"  he  added,  with  a  sneer  at 
Father  Brady,  "you  should  have  tried  to  prevent  the  girl 
from  making  a  fool  of  herself." 

"Brady  can  do  a  lot.  But  to  ask  him  to  work  a  miracle 
now — that's  entirely  too  much,"  said  Father  Dunne,  with  a 
shrug. 

"She's  a  sensible  girl — that's  what  beats  me,"  Father 
Brady  said,  with  a.  worried  frown.  "I  went  to  her  the  min- 
ute I  heard  it,  but  she  was  as  obstinate  as  a  brick  wall.  The 
convent  was  stuck  in  her  gullet — what  the  French  call  an 
idee  fixe,  I  didn't  leave  a  stone  standing  on  another  in  any 
convent  in  the  country,  with  the  abuse  I  gave  'em,  but  I 
might  as  well  have  been  yelping  at  the  moon.  There's  no 
pit  of  foolishness  a  woman  isn't  capable  of  falling  into  with 
her  eyes  wide  open.  But  it  was  my  friend  here  on  the 
right  that  gave  the  push  this  time.  'Father  Bernardine  ad- 
vised me/  she  said,  just  as  if,  she  was  speaking  to  the  Pope 
himself.  'Who  the  devil  is  Father  Bernardine?'  I  said,  'but 
Pete  Donlevy  that  I  used  to  thrash  every  day,  and  I  in 
the  Seminary  because  he  could  never  decline  bonus,  bona, 
bonum.'  She  has  spirit  in  her  that  girl.  She  laughed  in 
my  face  and  said  I  was  jealous,  and  all  the  time  the  heart 
was  crushed  out  of  her.  I  had  to  laugh  myself  at  the  idea 
of  being  jealous  of  a  tailor's  dummy  with  a  gramophone 


Vocations  155 

inside  him.  I'd  be  just  as  likely  to  be  jealous  of  Burke 
there.  May  God  help  the  poor  girl  all  the  same." 

"If  it  wasn't  one  thing,  it'd  be  another,"  Father  Dunne 
said,  draining  his  glass. 

"Thanks  for  a  most  enjoyable  dinner."  Father  Bernardine 
spoke  with  a  faint  note  of  injury  in  his  voice  and  a  flush 
under  his  ears.  "I'm  afraid  I  have  to  go." 

"You  know  you're  always  welcome,  Pete."  Father  Brady 
rose  with  his  guest.  "You're  not  at  all  a  bad  fellow  if  you 
weren't  such  a  damn  fool." 

Father  Burke  said  a  sneering  good-bye,  which  covered  an 
uneasy  jealousy.  His  own  success  with  women  always  had 
a  relation  to  sex.  Very  likely  Father  Bernardine's  were  the 
same.  Had  Kitty  fallen  a  victim?  One  could  never  trust 
those  fellows'  pretence  of  asceticism.  Brady  and  Dunne 
were  dry  sticks — Brady  was  old,  too — but  a  fellow  like 
Donlevy,  with  half  the  women  in  the  country  after  him! 
Human  nature  couldn't  stand  the  strain  even  in  a  saint. 
Likely  Donlevy  made  all  the  hay  he  could. 

"Coming  for  a  walk,  Burke?"  Father  Dunne  asked 
genially. 

"No." 

"A  tea-party?"  Father  Dunne  surmised,  with  a  shrug. 

Father  Burke  frowned,  but  he  looked  at  his  watch  with  a 
feeling  of  hope.  He'd  catch  her  at  tea.  He  must  see  her 
to-day  about  all  this.  It  was  the  mission  nonsense  that  made 
Kitty  avoid  him.  He'd  soon  put  it  out  of  her  head.  He 
stood  at  the  window  of  his  sitting-room,  rattling  his  keys  in 
his  pocket  till  the  three  priests  had  disappeared  down  the 
drive.  Was  it  better  to  make  a  plan  or  just  trust  to  chance? 
If  she'd  only  let  him  kiss  her  ,every thing  would  be  all  right. 
Poor  Winnie,  he  thought,  with  reminiscent  smile,  wasn't 
turning  out  half  bad.  But  he'd  have  to  be  careful  of  Brady. 
He  hummed  a  tune  and  ran  lightly  upstairs  to  his  bedroom. 
The  Muldoons  expected  him  to  tea — he'd  have  to  cut  that. 
And  Mrs.  Cummin — "bother  Fanny,"  he  muttered,  "the 
staler  she  grows  the  more  exacting  she  is."  He  put  on  a 
pair  of  white  cuffs,  brushed  his  hair  and  looked  at  himself 


156  Vocations 

carefully  in  the  glass.  He  was  dissatisfied  with  the  hang  of 
the  coat  from  the  shoulder,  and  changed  to  another  suit. 
He  sprinkled  eau-de-Cologne  on  a  clean  handkerchief  and 
fixed  it  with  careful  negligence  in  his  sleeve.  He  took  his 
newest  silk  hat  from  its  band-box  and  adjusted  it  to  a  pleas- 
ing angle  on  his  head.  He  hesitated  between  a  silver  handled 
stick  and  his  best  silk  umbrella  with  the  gold  top,  and  chose 
the  umbrella.  He  drew  his  gold  chain  across  his  waistcoat 
and  fixed  the  large  gold  cross  so  that  it  hung  well  down 
in  the  centre.  His  grey  reindeer  gloves !  No  matter  where 
he  called  now,  he  thought,  with  a  half -bitter  smile,  he'd  be 
wearing  a  gift  of  the  house.  Anywhere,  except  where  he 
was  going — from  Kitty  at  least.  Damn  her!  He'd  let  her 
go  to  the  devil,  and  go  somewhere  he  was  welcome. 

He  left  the  Presbytery,  banged  the  entrance-gate  vio- 
lently behind  him,  strode  forward  at  a  rapid  pace,  but 
slackened  it  when  he  noticed  that  m*s  boots  were  getting 
dusty.  Besides,  it  would  never  do  to  get  hot.  He  went 
round  by  Daunt's  Terrace  in  order  to  avoid  the  Muldoon's 
shop,  kept  his  eyes  on  the  pavement  as  he  passed  Rafters, 
and  pretended  not  to  see  Bedelia  who  signalled  to  him  from 
an  upstairs  window.  He  gave  curt  nods  to  passing  acquaint- 
ances. Why  should  he  bother  about  Kitty  with  the  whole 
town  to  choose  from?  If  he  did  want  to  see  her,  it  was 
lucky  it  was  market  day  .  .  .  she'd  be  alone.  He  turned  in 
at  the  shop  door  without  hesitation. 

"Father  Burke !  Well,  well,  to  be  sure,"  Mrs.  Curtin  said 
joyfully,  over  the  heads  of  several  customers.  "Harry,  come 
up  here  and  finish  Mrs.  Mulcahy's  order  while  I  attend  to 
the  priest.  I  know  you  are,  Mrs.  Greene,  but  I  won't  be  a 
minute.  The  snug,  Father." 

She  bustled  round  and  opened  the  snuggery  door. 

"It's  great  news  I  have  for  you  entirely,"  she  said,  in  an 
eager,  confident  whisper,  keeping  his  hand  as  she  drew  him 
into  the  little  room.  "Kitty  is  going  up  above,"  with  a 
vague  gesture,  "as  soon  as  ever  her  clothes  can  be  made. 
The  grace  of  God  and  Father  Bernardine  between  'em  did 
it,  glory  be  to  God — not  to  mention  your  own  prayers.  I 


Vocations  157 

never  seen  a  girl  so  set  on  it.  No  hysterics,  no  high-falut- 
ing,  no  nothing.  It's  almost  agin  nature  this  taking  it  so 
quiet.  I  half  pity  Tom  he's  so  broke  over  it,  but  we  must 
all  learn  to  bow  to  the  will  of  God.  And  them  Duggans 
thought  they  had  her  in  their  pocket !  The  hand  of  God 
is  over  all,  I  say.  It's  wonderful  how  He  led  that  little  girl 
along  the  right  path.  I  have  every  reason  to  be  proud  of 
myself,  but  I'm  a  humble  woman,  thanks  be  to  God.  If  I 
had  ten  more  I  wouldn't  grudge  'em  to  Him." 

"You're  a  wonderful  woman,"  he  murmured,  with  a  sup- 
pressed sneer. 

"I  did  my  best.  Though  it  was  a  bit  of  a  strain  at  times. 
I  might  be  tempted  to  give  in  once  in  a  while,  but  I  knew 
God  was  behind  me,  and  sure  the  result  proves  me  right." 

She  stood  on  tiptoe  and  looked  over  the  side  screen. 

"But  there's  Mrs.  Greene  looking  as  black  as  pitch.  You'll 
be  going  up  to  give  Kitty  a  word  in  season  before  she  goes? 
I'll  call  Peggy  to  warn  her." 

"Please  don't  take  Peggy  away  from  her  work,"  he  pro- 
tested. "I  ought  to  know  my  way  up  by  this,"  he  added, 
with  a  nervous  laugh. 

"Lighten  the  poor  thing  up  a  bit,"  Mrs.  Curtin  said  cheer- 
fully, as  she  held  open  the  door  leading  to  the  hall.  "She's 
more  like  an  old  woman  than  a  young  girl  for  the  last  few 
days.  It's  not  within  reason  to  let  religion  hang  so  heavy 
on  her.  There's  time  and  a  place  for  everything,  I  always 
say." 

"Trust  me,"  he  absentmindedly  replied. 

He  mounted  the  stairs  slowly,  a  sinking  feeling  at  his 
heart.  He  pulled  down  his  cuffs  and  the  ends  of  his  waist- 
coat, fixed  his  hat,  gloves  and  umbrella  in  his  left  hand  at 
the  most  effective  angle,  patted  his  hair  and  assumed  the 
smirk  with  which  he  always  entered  a  room.  But  to-day  it 
was  done  almost  unconsciously.  For  once  he  had  very  nearly 
forgotten  himself.  A  desirable  but  unapproachable  Kitty 
mocked  his  vision  and  made  him  tremble.  Sphinx-like,  with 
the  veiled  eyes  of  the  woman  in  the  picture  in  Dunne's  room, 
she  could  love.  But  how  to  reach  her  across  that  gulf? 


158  Vocations 

For  a  moment  he  saw  himself  objectively — stripped  of  all 
pretence  and  hypocrisy,  boldly  acknowledging  his  love,  fac- 
ing obloquy  even.  He  saw  her  approving  smile  and  felt  a 
glow  of  heroic  courage.  The  world  seemed  to  rock  about 
him.  He  clung  to  his  resolve,  though  he  knew  that  his 
courage  had  oozed  out  of  his  trembling  knees.  He  could 
do  it  and  he  would.  He  struggled  for  a  moment,  but  the 
difficulties  crowded  in  on  him  and  overpowered  him.  He 
rested  his  free  hand  on  the  bannister  for  support.  No  man 
could  face  it.  Cut  off  by  an  ubiquitous  and  relentless  church 
that  must  keep  up  appearances  at  any  cost.  His  pleasant, 
easy  life  gone.  .  .  .  Brady  couldn't  last  for  ever.  Monsignor 
Burke  was  an  easy  game.  And  if  he  played  his  cards  well 
and  was  careful  .  ..  perhaps,  a  bishopric?  Though  that 
would  be  a  heavy  strain  on  one's  caution. 

He  was  a  fool  even  to  think  of  the  other  thing.  And  her 
father  and  mother  would  cut  her  off  without  a  penny.  It 
was  all  so  unnecessary,  too.  She  was  sure  to  learn  common 
sense  and  take  what  she  could  out  of  life — reasonably,  of 
course.  And  the  opportunities  were  infinite.  A  priest  had 
a  passport  everywhere,  and  was  a  fool  if  he  didn't  make 
good  use  of  it.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  himself  in  the  glass 
of  a  picture  and  smirked.  He  went  through  his  usual  opera- 
tions with  his  clothes  and  hair,  consciously  now.  With  re- 
newed self-respect  he  knocked  at  the  sitting-room  door, 
and  opened  it. 

"Oh,  it's  you,"  Kitty  said  indifferently,  without  moving 
from  her  curled-up  position  in  Winnie's  arm-chair,  which 
was,  however,  turned  away  from  the  window.  "I  thought 
you'd  never  come  in." 

"A  loosened  bootlace,"  he  said,  with  irritation. 

He  was  angry  with  himself  for  having  the  feeling  of 
irritation,  and  tried  to  overcome  it.  ...  She  might,  at  least, 
have  offered  him  his  usual  :hair.  He  put  his  hat  and 
umbrella  and  gloves  on  the  piano. 

"Come  now.  Don't  treat  a  friend  like  this."  He  held  out 
his  hand. 

"There  are  chairs,"  she  said  coldly. 


Vocations  159 

Her  eyes  moved  slowly  from  his  glossy  clothes  and  heavy 
gold  watch  chain  to  the  shining  hat  and  the  gold  handle  of 
the  umbrella  protruding  over  the  edge  of  the  piano.  Father 
Bernardine  was  so  right,  but  this  man — was  he  really  a 
priest?  There  was  more  in  religion  than  that — was  so 
wrong.  It  wasn't  his  dress  altogether — that  was  merely  vul- 
gar. It  was  some  combined  effect  of  his  leer  and  his  Roman 
collar.  Father  Brady  hadn't  it,  nor  Father  Dunne.  But 
there  were  others.  .  .  .  And  the  more  repulsive  the  leer  the 
deeper  the  collar. 

He  was  conscious  of  her  look  as  he  drew  a  chair  near  to 
her  and  sat  down.  He  was  always  conscious  of  people's 
looks;  of  some  necessary  relation  of  their  thoughts  to  him- 
self. He  was  still  angry  with  her  for  her  refusal  to  shake 
hands,  but  he  made  an  effort  not  to  show  it.  It  was,  he 
supposed,  because  he  had  once  tried  to  kiss  her. 

"Admiring  my  umbrella  ?"  he  said,  with  a  nervous  smirk. 
"These  things  are  thrown  at  me.  I  never  brought  it  here 
before  because  Winnie  never  liked  me  to  wear  any  but  her 
gifts.  Poor  Winnie!  She's  such  a  dear  little  thing,  a  bit 
of  a  goose,  though,  don't  you  think?" 

Kitty's  frown  warned  him,  and  he  added  hastily,  "Bedelia 
Rafter  gave  me  the  umbrella.  It's  really  rather  choice. 
What?" 

She  wondered  if  he  had  ever  tried  to  kiss  Bedelia  Rafter. 
A  sharp  image  of  Bedelia  Rafter  and  Stephen  Muldoon,  in 
the  punt  below  the  bridge,  flashed  through  her  mind.  For 
a  moment  she  had  a  giddy,  intoxicating  sensation.  It  must 
be  like  that  to  be  kissed.  Oh !  But  it  was  all  right.  Father 
Bernardine  said  there  was  no  sin  unless  one  consented  after 
one  was  conscious  of  the  thought  as  sinful.  She  murmured 
an  ejaculatory  prayer  and  said : 

"Wouldn't  you  like  some  tea?" 

"What  on  earth  put  it  into  your  head  to  go  into  a  con- 
vent?" he  sneered,  irritated  by  her  casual  treatment. 

"Because  I  want  to,  I  suppose  ...  I'd  better  go  and  tell 
Peggy  about  tea.  She  won't  hear  a  bell  to-day — she'll  be  in 
the  shop." 


160  Vocations 

"She  saw  me  coming  up,"  he  said.  "You  needn't  make  an 
excuse  to  run  away.  Ah !  That's  why  you  are  going  into  the 
convent.  You  are  running  away — from  yourself,"  he  added, 
with  a  sneer. 

She  winced.  Perhaps  she  had  always  disliked  him  be- 
cause he  seemed  to  know  her  thoughts. 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  you,  anyway,"  she  said,  defending 
herself. 

"Why  should  you  be  afraid  of  me?  I'm  your  friend — 
have  always  been,  if  you  would  only  let  yourself  see  it."  He 
spoke  gently.  "You're  afraid  of  your  passionate  heart." 

She  flushed.  If  her  heart  weren't  dead  that  would  be 
true.  He  was  a  beast. 

"There's  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of,"  he  assured  her.  "It 
merely  means  that  you're  a  woman.  You  won't  escape  your 
feelings  by  taking  them  into  a  convent.  I  know  it  will  be 
worse  there  instead  of  better.  They  want  their  natural  out- 
let. You  can't  kill  them  by  repressing  them.  They  only 
become  more  active,  more  violent." 

She  listened  with  a  growing  interest.  His  lisp  had  gone 
and  he  seemed  more  real.  He  was  wrong,  of  course.  The 
outlet  she  had  wanted  was  closed  to  her  for  ever.  If  her 
feelings  weren't  dead,  they  were  dying.  For  hours  at  a 
time  she  felt  so  numb  that  she  had  no  feelings  left.  Grad- 
ually they  would  die  away  altogether.  Even  now,  by  fol- 
lowing Father  Bernardine's  instructions,  she  could  direct  her 
thoughts.  In  the  convent,  actively  working  for  the  greater 
glory  of  God,  she  should  be  quite  safe. 

"Take  my  advice  and  stay  out.  You'll  only  make  your- 
self the  more  miserable  by  going  in,"  he  wound  up. 

"I  couldn't  be  more  miserable  than  I  am." 

"Poor  little  thing.    My  poor  Kitty,"  he  said  tenderly. 

She  felt  his  hand  on  hers,  but  she  was  inert,  unable  to 
move.  Fascinated,  she  watched  him  rise  from  his  chair 
and  bend  over  her.  Weak  and  passive  she  waited.  She 
could  note  things :  the  satisfied  smirk  on  his  convulsed  face ; 
the  absence  of  struggle  in  her  own  will ;  her  feeling  of  peace 
and  content  as  once  on  waking  out  of  a  fever;  a  sort  of 


Vocations  161 

detached,  curious  expectancy.  A  mixed  odour  of  lemon, 
stale  tobacco  and  eau-de-Cologne  awakened  her.  Mingled 
with  the  horrid  attraction  of  his  hot  breath  was  the  menac- 
ing face  of  Father  Bernardine  in  the  very  moment  of  his 
fiercest  denunciation  of  sin.  Feebly  and  half -reluctantly  she 
thew  her  hands  forward. 

"Don't  be  a  little  fool,"  he  said  angrily. 

"How  dare  you!"  Fiercely  she  flung  him  off.  ,  She 
trembled  all  over.  Was  there  never  to  be  any  release  ?  Thank 
God,  she  had  just  saved  herself  in  time.  Whether  her 
clothes  were  ready  or  not,  she'd  enter  to-night — to-morrow 
at  the  latest. 

"I  suppose  you've  lost  your  heart  to  the  pulpit  Adonis  ?° 
he  sneered. 

She  frowned.  What  a  thoroughly  bad  man  he  must  be  to 
speak  like  that  of  a  saint.  "He  never  forgets  that  he's  a 
priest,"  she  said. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  sceptically.  "Anyhow,  I 
can't  forget  that  I'm  a  man  when  you're  by, "he  said  bitterly. 

"You  shouldn't,  you  know."  She  spoke  gently  now,  her 
resentment  ebbing  away  in  a  quickened  interest.  He  was 
suffering,  and  it  was  because  of  her. 

"You're  a  little  devil — a  heartless  little  devil.  You'll  suffer 
for  this  yet.  By  God,  how  you'll  suffer  for  it.  A  convent!" 
he  laughed.  "With  a  temperament  like  yours  you'll  soon 
know  what  it  is  to  be  in  hell." 

His  words  struck  her  with  a  cold  fear.  What  if  he  knew? 
After  all,  he  was  a  priest,  and  didn't  some  bad  prophet  once 
foretell  the  truth. 

"Won't  you  have  some  tea  now,  Father?"  she  said  with 
a  frightened,  absentminded  stare  at  a  Crown  Derby  tea-cup 
on  a  blue  velvet  bracket  on  the  wall. 

"No.  thank  you,  I'm  going1  to  the  Muldoons  for  tea." 

She  had  a  pleasant  feeline  of  relief.  He  was  just  Father 
Burke,  after  all.  She  was  a  fool  to  think  even  for  a  moment 
that  anvthingr  that  he  said  could  have  any  weight.  Father 
Bernardine  was  so  different.  Handsome,  but  unconscious 
of  it — just  as  the  angels  must  be.  One  could  be  mistaken 


162  Vocations 

as  to  one's  own  feelings,  but  a  saint  saw  straight  into  one's 
heart.  With  a  pitying  smile  she  watched  Father  Burke 
smirk  at  the  mirror,  pull  at  his  cuffs  and  waistcoat,  shake 
his  shoulders  into  position  and  pat  a  lock  of  hair.  He 
lingered  over  the  arrangement  of  his  hat,  gloves  and  um- 
brella. 

"You  won't  make  friends?"  he  appealed,  turning  round 
and  facing  her  in  all  his  seductive  glory. 

"It's  really  long  after  tea-time."  She  only  half -suppressed 
a  smile. 

"You're  choosing  a  certain  road  to  the  devil,"  he  said 
furiously. 

"I  prefer  my  own  road,  anyway,  to  yours." 

He  looked  at  her  as  if  he  hated  her,  bit  his  lip,  turned  on 
his  heel,  and  had  assumed  his  usual  pose  of  deprecating 
assurance,  his  head  cocked  a  little  to  one  side,  by  the  time 
he  had  reached  the  door. 

She  watched  him  go  half  with  relief,  half  with  regret.  If 
only  he  didn't  make  love,  he'd  be  interesting  enough  when 
he  allowed  himself  to  be  real.  Was  there  anything  in  what 
he  said?  Father  Brady  had  hinted  at  something  similar, 
but  he  was  too  angry  with  her  to  be  coherent.  And  Father 
Brady,  with  his  narrow  experience,  couldn't  know  as  much 
about  the  soul  as  Father  Bernardine.  She  went  to  the  win- 
dow and  looked  out  idly  at  the  groups  of  people  breaking 
and  re-forming,  chattering  and  bargaining  in  front  of  the 
shop.  She  turned  away  suddenly  with  a  shudder.  He  might 
pass.  She  couldn't  bear  that — yet.  Father  Bernardine  had 
promised  her  happiness.  She  must  be  patient.  She  curled 
herself  again  in  the  arm-chair  and  stared  at  the  wall  above 
the  piano.  It  was  sure  to  come — not  all  at  once,  perhaps, 
but  some  time.  Would  it  take  a  week,  a  month,  a  year  ? 


Chapter  I o 

THE  Mercy  Convent  looked  down  on  Drumbawn 
physically  as  well  as  morally.  At  its  feet  were 
the  parish  church,  the  presbytery  and  the  river. 
It  was  surrounded  by  extensive  grounds  shaded 
by  stately  beech  and  elm.  Field  after  field  by  the  diligent 
and  judicious  use  of  St.  Benedict's  medals,  had  been  added 
to  the  original  park  of  the  Levis  family  till  no  house  in  the 
main  portion  of  the  town  beyond  the  river  escaped  observa- 
tion. The  process  of  acquisition  was  simple,  though  some- 
times long.  The  field  giving  a  view  of  the  old  whitewashed 
Dominican  convent  on  the  northern  outskirts  of  the  town 
fell  in  ten  years,  while  the  field  on  the  slope  of  the  steep  hill 
that  made  possible  a  private  way  from  the  convent  to  the 
parish  church,  held  out  for  nearly  two  generations.  Nine 
days  before  the  feast  of  St.  Benedict  in  each  year  a  medal 
was  thrown  into  the  desired  field,  a  novena  was  offered  up 
to  the  saint  that  God  might  intervene,  and  the  result  was 
awaited  with  confidence.  The  manner  of  fulfilment  varied. 
A  recalcitrant  owner  died,  and  his  heir  was  moved  to  a 
sense  of  his  religious  duty  by  a  substantial  price.  A  novice 
brought  in  a  field  as  a  dot.  Bankruptcy  made  another  pos- 
sible. But  the  greatest  marvel  of  all  was  longest  in  com- 
ing. The  old  reprobate,  who  for  fifty  years  forced  the 
nuns  to  walk  to  the  parish  church  by  the  public  street,  died 
intestate,  and  his  property  all  came  to  Sister  Angelica,  his 
niece,  to  whom  he  had  frequently  sworn  he  would  never 
leave  a  cent.  Sister  Angelica  never  walked  the  gravelled 
path,  shaded  by  trim  juniper  hedges,  from  the  convent  to 
the  parish  church,  without  meditating  on  the  justice  of  God, 
manifested  all  the  more  strikingly  as  her  uncle  David  had 
left  an  unsigned  will  bequeathing  in  a  long  clause  of  deri- 
sion of  the  convent,  the  coveted  field  to  a  cats'  home. 
163 


164  Vocations 

On  a  genial  morning  of  May  three  nuns  walked  slowly 
along  the  west  terrace.  The  external  duties  of  the  day  had 
begun.  Nuns  were  busy  over  their  allotted  tasks  in  the 
schools,  in  the  orphanage,  in  the  house.  Reverend  Mother, 
Mother  Bursar  and  the  Mistress  of  Novices  had  thus  a  free 
hour  in  which  to  discuss  important  affairs  of  direction  and 
government 

Reverend  Mother  peered  over  her  glasses  at  the  blaze  of 
spring  flowers,  stooped  down  with  difficulty,  now  to  smell, 
now  to  cut  off,  with  a  scissors  that  hung  from  her  leather 
girdle,  a  dead  leaf  or  a  fading  blossom. 

"A  lot  of  beds  need  renewing,"  she  said  briskly. 

Her  slight  note  of  defiance  could  not  be  meant  for  the 
Mistress  of  Novices  who,  looking  at  her  with  admiring  eyes, 
hastened  to  say: 

"Indeed  they  do,  Reverend  Mother.    Badly,  very  badly." 

Mother  Bursar  shot  an  angry  glance  at  the  Mistress  of 
Novices,  who  blushed  and  added  defensively: 

"You  know,  Michael,  they're  not  looking  their  best." 

"There  isn't  another  convent  in  the  country  has  a  better 
show  of  flowers,"  Mother  Michael  stonily  said. 

"Not  even  the  tulips?"  Reverend  Mother  pleaded. 

"As  if  dear  Reverend  Mother  had  to  beg  for  things !"  the 
Mistress  of  Novices  indignantly  protested. 

"Is  it  Calixta's  business,  or  is  it  mine?"  Mother  Michael 
enquired,  pursing  her  thin  lips. 

"Yours,  of  course,  dear  Michael,"  Reverend  Mother 
answered,  laying  a  benignant  hand  on  Mother  Bursar's 
shoulder.  "You  are  our  trusted  guardian  of  the  purse.  I'd 
be  very  hard  myself  if  I  held  the  purse-strings.  How  you 
manage  to  meet  all  our  wants  is  a  wonder  to  me." 

Mother  Calixta  gave  a  demure  smile  and  a  little  sniff,  ap- 
plied her  blue-and-white  check  handkerchief  to  her  nose  and 
murmured,  "It  can't  be  hay-fever  yet." 

Mother  Michael's  hard,  thin  face  relaxed  a  little,  and  she 
said,  half  relenting,  half  doubtful : 

"I've  just  had  to  renew  all  the  sisters'  summer  under- 


Vocations  165 

clothing — the  new  gold  chalice  compelled  us  to  put  it  off 
last  year." 

"God  always  provides,"  Reverend  Mother  said  hopefully, 
pulling  up  a  weed. 

"And  this  new  Inspector  of  Orphanages  is  putting  us  to 
dreadful  expense — spectacles  and  teeth.  He's  even  making 
a  fuss  about  beds  and  underclothes — it's  indelicate."  Mother 
Michael  frowned  at  a  creeper  with  a  calculating  air.  "I 
hoped  to  be  able  to  pay  for  the  new  cope  out  of  the  orphans 
this  year,  but  they'll  barely  come  out  even." 

"We  live  in  hard  times,"  said  Reverend  Mother  cheerfully. 
"Inspectors  are  a  scourge.  I  remember  the  time  when  they 
came  in  pleasantly  to  lunch  and  wrote  a  few  nice  words  of 
praise  in  the  book  without  fussing  over  anything — quite 
gentlemen.  Thank  God  the  children  do  no  worse  now,  for 
all  this  fuss.  You'll  manage  somehow,  Michael?  A  few 
pounds  would  do  it.  One,  two — seven  beds  here.  And  we'll 
want  new  geraniums  and  scarlet  begonias — I  was  ashamed 
of  the  bedding-out  last  year.  That  will  be  eight  beds  more 
in  the  south  terrace.  And  the  greenhouses  are  a  disgrace. 
We  must  re-stock  the  whole  of  the  orchids  and  primulas. 
This  terrace  would  be  all  the  better  for  replanting.  I'd  run 
a  centre  walk  up  to  the  dovecote.  And  that  straggling  laurel 
hedge  must  go." 

"It  hides  the  hen  houses,"  Mother  Michael  objected. 

"Oh,  I'd  plant  a  juniper  hedge  behind  it  and  let  that  grow 
to  a  certain  height  before  I  touched  the  laurels.  Then  when 
we  pull  up  the  laurels — thank  God  juniper  doesn't  take  long 
to  grow — we'd  have  space  for  a  new  herbaceous  border 
along  the  whole  length."  Reverend  Mother  paused  to  take 
breath. 

"When  I  was  young,"  Mother  Michael  said,  with  a  set 
smile,  "I  was  left  a  legacy  of  about  eight  pounds  a  year.  My 
mother  used  to  advise  me  how  to  spend  it.  I  once  added  up 
the  cost  of  her  plans — over  two  hundred  pounds  in  one 
year." 

"Michael !"  Mother  Calixta  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  horror 
with  an  anxious  look  at  Reverend  Mother. 


166  Vocations 

Reverend  Mother  laughed  heartily.  "This  little  calculat- 
ing machine  keeps  the  roof  over  us,  Calixta.  I  suppose  I'm 
not  to  be  trusted  with  trees  and  flowers.  Twenty  pounds, 
Michael?  Not  a  penny  more." 

"I  know  what  that  means,"  Mother  Michael  said,  coldly. 
"A  hundred  pounds  wouldn't " 

"How  are  those  children  of  yours  on  retreat  getting  on, 
Calixta?"  Reverend  Mother  interrupted. 

"Oh,  beautifully,"  Mother  Calixta  ecstatically  replied. 

"Let  us  sit  down  for  a  while  in  the  shade."  Reverend 
Mother  looked  closely  at  a  rosebud  without  seeing  the 
grubs.  "We'll  let  the  fowl  and  the  cow-houses  pass  this 
morning." 

"It  will  be  cheaper,"  Mother  Michael  said,  with  a  little 
toss  of  her  head. 

Mother  Calixta  ran  forward  and  drew  two  chairs  close 
together  under  a  spreading  yew  tree.  "Please  ?"  she  said  to 
Mother  Michael,  who  hesitated  to  take  the  second  chair. 

Reverend  Mother  sank  down  on  her  chair  with  relief. 

"Pheu,  it  might  be  July.  The  sooner  we  have  summer 
things  the  better,  Michael.  Don't  crowd  in  on  me,  child," 
she  added  to  Calixta  who  had  fetched  a  low  stool  for  herself 
and  sat  close  to  Reverend  Mother's  knee,  looking  up  at  her 
face. 

The  Mistress  of  Novices  moved  back  her  seat  an  inch, 
blushing  prettily.  She  was  forty-one,  but  did  not  look  it. 
She  was  pleased  with  "child"  as  a  tribute  to  her  youthful  ap- 
pearance, and  as  a  token  of  Reverend  Mother's  affection : 
the  two  things,  after  God — all  three  were,  indeed,  in- 
extricably mixed — for  which  she  cared  most. 

Mother  Michael  gave  a  little  sniff  which  quite  plainly  said 
"humph."  She,  too,  was  fond  of  Reverend  Mother  but,  she 
told  herself,  in  a  rational  way.  Reverend  Mother,  with  all 
her  carelessness  about  money,  was  a  woman  of  sense,  for 
she  made  her,  Michael,  bursar,  and  kept  her  there  in  the 
face  of  strong  opposition.  It  was  all  to  Reverend  Mother's 
advantage,  of  course,  for  no  one  else  in  the  convent  had  her, 
Michael's,  knowledge  of  accounts  and  her  courage  to  be 


Vocations  167 

offensive.  Without  her  help  in  keeping  things  straight  the 
finances  of  the  convent  would  be  in  a  mess  in  six  months, 
and  the  opposition  party  under  Sister  Eulalie  would  at  last 
succeed  in  ousting  Reverend  Mother  from  office.  Reverend 
Mother  might  have  a  weakness  for  sprawling  affection  like 
Calixta's,  but  she  could  also  use  her  head. 

"Are  you  comfy,  dearest  Mother  ?"  Mother  Calixta  asked, 
laying  a  hand  on  Reverend  Mother's  knee. 

"There,  there,"  Reverend  Mother  answered  absentmind- 
edly,  fingering  her  beads. 

Michael  smiled  down  her  nose  at  Calixta,  and  thought 
how  like  a  fawning  spaniel  she  looked.  It  was  so  much  more 
comfortable  and  satisfying  to  one's  self-respect  to  be  trusted 
and  feared  a  little  than  to  be  loved  and  half  despised. 

"Kitty  is  all  right,  but  I'm  not  so  sure  about  Winnie," 
Reverend  Mother  said  wearily,  pushing  back  her  dimity 
from  her  hot  brow. 

"But,  Mother  dear,  it's  all  settled.  They're  in  the  middle 
of  their  retreat  for  profession,"  Mother  Calixta  said.  "If 
you  said  you  knew,  of  course,  I'd  say  nothing.  But  as  it 
is  only  a  feeling — though  in  these,  too,  you  are  nearly 
always  wonderfully  right — I  must  take  the  courage  to  say 
that  I  think  you  are  wrong." 

,  "What  do  you  say,  Michael?"  Reverend  Mother  asked, 
with  a  worried  frown. 

Mother  Michael  shrugged  her  narrow  shoulders.  "Winnie 
is  a  little  fool;  but  then  she's  no  worse  than  many  of  the 
others  we've  professed." 

Reverend  Mother  smiled.  "We  can't  all  of  us  be  wise. 
It's  whether  she's  going  to  be  a  happy  little  fool  or  a  miser- 
able one,"  she  said,  peering  into  space  over  her  spectacles. 

"Who  knows  ?  Anyhow,  she's  passed  her  chapter,"  Mother 
Michael  said,  with  a  note  of  finality. 

"The  gate  of  heaven !"  Reverend  Mother  chuckled.  "Re- 
spect for  the  sisters'  vote  is  a  new  thing  with  you." 

"It  gets  us  the  money  for  the  new  chapel  this  time," 
Mother  Michael  said  dryly.  "And  as  you're  determined  to 


168  Vocations 

build  it  in  any  case,  the  Holy  Ghost  must  have  been  some- 
where about." 

Reverend  Mother  sighed.  "I  wish  we  hadn't  to  think  of 
money,"  she  said. 

"We  needn't  if  we  didn't  waste  so  much  on  fal-lals.  The 
old  chapel  is  good  enough,"  said  Mother  Michael  sharply. 

"Michael !"  Mother  Calixta  indignantly  held  up  a  warn- 
ing finger. 

"The  orphans  are  too  much  crowded  up  at  the  back," 
Reverend  Mother  said. 

"The  bishop  hasn't  room  enough  to  show  off  at  cere- 
monies," Mother  Michael  retorted,  with  spirit. 

"A  large  apse,"  said  Reverend  Mother  weakly,  "would  be 
more  decorous." 

"Thank  God  the  little  Curtins  will  enable  me  to  balance 
my  accounts,"  Mother  Michael  said,  with  good-humour.  "I 
was  a  little  afraid  of  Winnie  balking." 

"It's  not  at  all  nice  of  Michael  to  speak  of  my  novices  in 
this  horrid  way.  Is  it  now,  Reverend  Mother,  dear,?" 
Mother  Calixta  was  tearful  with  vexation. 

"I  wish  I  hadn't  Winnie  on  my  mind,"  Reverend  Mother 
said  doubtfully. 

"Mr.  Curtin  might  throw  in  the  river  meadow  on  the  day 
of  the  profession,  if  it  was  properly  put  to  him,"  Mother 
Michael  meditated.  "I  could  keep  five  more  cows  and  I 
can  get  tuppence  ha'penny  a  quart  for  all  the  Guernsey  milk 
we  can  sell.  You  could  have  the  shrubbery  and  the  beds 
and  everything  if  he  did,"  she  added,  with  an  unusual  burst 
of  generosity. 

"We  could  run  the  lime  avenue  down  to  the  river," 
Reverend  Mother  said. 

"Even  that,  perhaps,"  Mother  Michael  doubtfully  agreed. 

But  already  Reverend  Mother  had  extended  the  lime  ave- 
nue, and  was  busy  making  a  path  along  the  river ;  and  grow- 
ing a  hedge — a  juniper  hedge  well  back  with  openings — to 
shade  the  nuns  from  prying  eyes  while  giving  access  to  a 
terrace  on  the  bank. 

"I  was  keeping  the  river  meadow  back  as  a  surprise  for 


Vocations  169 

dear  Reverend  Mother  .  .  .  it's  sure  to  come  the  day 
Winnie  is  professed.  She  and  all  the  novices  have  been 
praying  for  it  ever  since  she  entered,"  Mother  Calixta  said. 

Mother  Michael  shot  at  Reverend  Mother  her  well- 
known  look :  "Don't  you  admit  now  she's  a  fool  ?"  Rev- 
erend Mother's  whimsical  smile  encouraged  her  to  add  in 
words,  "You  could  come  round  him  if  anyone  could,  Rev- 
erend Mother." 

"I  might  try,"  the  old  nun  said  reluctantly.  "He's  giving 
us  a  good  deal  as  it  is.  And  people  cling  to  land.  I  wouldn't 
part  with  a  foot  of  our  grounds  for  its  weight  in  gold.  And 
he's  never  forgiven  us  for  taking  Kitty.  There's  a  real  nun 
for  you !  But  I  wish  I  could  see  my  way  more  clearly  about 
Winnie.  We  could  have  a  little  summer-house  behind  the 
hedge,  by  one  of  the  openings.  I'll  get  Johanna  to  influence 
him.  It's  not  grasping  of  us,  as  it  must  all  come  to  the  chil- 
dren one  day,"  she  added,  as  if  pleading  with  a  conscience 
that  hung  on  a  branch  of  wistaria.  "But  I  wish  we  had 
given  Winnie  a  few  months  more  trial,"  with  a  sigh. 

"There's  no  hedge  in  the  river  meadow,"  said  Mother 
Michael  severely. 

"There  will  be,  dear.  There  will  be,"  Reverend  Mother 
mused. 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  seconds.  Reverend  Mother 
was  thatching  the  summer-house.  Mother  Michael  was 
frowningly  calculating  the  probable  losses  on  her  proposed 
source  of  profit.  Mother  Calixta  was  feeling  snubbed.  The 
office  of  novice-mistress  was  senior  to  that  of  bursar  and 
infinitely  more  important.  Michael,  of  course,  was  always 
horrid.  But  dear  Reverend  Mother?  She  wouldn't  mind  if 
they  had  been  alone,  but  to  ignore  her  before  that  cat 
Michael !  She  felt  irritated  with  Reverend  Mother. 

"I  don't  care  what  anyone  says,  Winnie  has  ten  times  the 
vocation  that  Kitty  has,"  she  broke  out. 

"Ah,"  Reverend  Mother  said  sadly,  brought  back  with 
painful  suddenness  from  a  pleasant  dream.  Most  of  poor 
Calixta's  swans  were  geese.  Calixta  was  good,  but  was  that 


170  Vocations 

enough?  Was  she  consulting  her  own  ease  too  mucn  in 
having  her  as  novice  mistress.  She  sighed. 

"Kitty  doesn't  put  ink  in  the  holy  water  stoup,"  Mother 
Michael  said  quietly. 

"Father  Acquaviva  did  the  same  when  he  was  a  novice, 
and  he  became  General  of  the  Jesuits,"  Mother  Calixta  re- 
torted. "It  was  all  dear  Winnie's  playfulness.  She  read 
about  it  at  Spiritual  Reading  and  thought  it  such  simple 
saintly  fun.  I  like  my  novices  to  show  signs  of  Holy  Inno- 
cence." 

"That's  why  she  runs  after  Father  Burke,  I  suppose?" 
Mother  Michael  gave  a  keen  glance  at  Reverend  Mother  as 
she  spoke. 

"He's  her  confessor,"  Mother  Calixta  said,  looking  ap- 
prehensively in  her  turn  at  Reverend  Mother,  who  was  tell- 
ing her  beads  with  a  troubled  face. 

Mother  Michael  made  a  dive  at  a  wasp  with  the  end  of  her 
black  veil,  and  smiled  sceptically  at  the  corpse. 

"I've  wondered  till  now  where  our  young  nuns  got  their 
wisdom,"  she  said  pleasantly,  whisking  the  wasp  off  her 
lap. 

"Indeed,  I'm  most  careful.  You  know  I  am,  Reverend 
Mother?"  Mother  Calixta  said,  blushing  deeply.  "I  can't 
speak  frankly  of  such  delicate  subjects,  of  course,  but  I've 
hinted,  and  I've  found  Winnie  as  open  as  the  day.  The  poor 
child  is  as  easily  seen  through  as  a  glass  of  spring  water.  A 
real  nun  to  her  finger-tips.  I've  known  her  to  have  as  many 
as  five  novenas  running  at  the  same  time.  And  I  watch  like 
a  sleuth-hound." 

She  laughed  merrily.  "I  once  said  that  to  the  novices 
and  the  dear  things  call  me  'the  sleuth-hound'  as  a  pet  name 
ever  since." 

"It's  so  very  apt!"  Mother  Michael  said. 

"I  can't  put  my  finger  on  anything  positive."  Reverend 
Mother  was  half -asserting,  half -posing  a  worried  question 
to  the  gravel  at  her  feet. 

"Perhaps  if  Calixta  were  to  wear  spectacles,"  Mother 
Michael  suggested,  with  malice  in  her  shining  teeth. 


Vocations  171 

"It's  all  because  Kitty  is  your  favourite,"  Mother  Calixta 
tartly  retorted. 

"My  dear  child,  I've  no  favourites,"  Mother  Michael  said, 
with  a  shrug.  "Winnie  has  survived  her  noviceship  without 
making  too  great  a  fool  of  herself,  so  I'm  willing  to  take 
your  word  for  the  rest.  As  far  as  I'm  concerned,  we  haven't 
had  two  more  promising  nuns  than  the  Curtins  since  I  be- 
came bursar.  Vocations  are  your  business  and  dowries  are 
mine.  In  cash  they're  both  equal;  and  both  eminently  satis- 
factory. Instead  of  worrying  about  Winnie,  Reverend 
Mother  should  be  blessing  her  stars.  They  say  Tom  Cur- 
tin  has  pots  of  money,  and  our  purse  is  a  bottomless  sieve." 

"We  could  put  the  profession  off  for  another  three 
months,"  Reverend  Mother  suggested. 

"In  twenty  years  Winnie  will  be  the  very  same  as  she  is 
to-day,"  Mother  Michael  decisively  said.  "They  were  both 
due  for  profession  three  months  ago,  and  you've  kept  them 
back  with  no  result  but  to  complicate  my  accounts.  It's  not 
fair  to  Kitty  with  nothing  whatever  against  her.  And 
Calixta  will  know  just  as  much  about  Winnie  in  three 
months  as  she  knows  now.  The  profession  day  has  been 
fixed  by  the  bishop ;  and  we've  practically  arranged  to  begin 
building  next  week.  It  means  an  overdraft  unless  we  have 
Tom  Curtin's  cheque  at  once." 

"She  draws  a  net  round  me  so  that  I  can  hardly  breathe 
when  she  speaks  like  this,"  Reverend  Mother  said  to  Mother 
Calixta,  with  a  sigh.  "You're  sure  it's  all  right?" 

"Dear  Michael  takes  such  material  views  of  things," 
Mother  Calixta  said  primly.  "I  know  my  novices.  Winnie 
is  a  saint  if  ever  there  was  one,"  she  continued,  with  en- 
thusiasm. "Such  acts  of  mortification,  such  offerings  up, 
such " 

"I  hope  to  God  we  aren't  making  a  mistake,"  Reverend 
Mother  interrupted.  "If  she  were  only  like  Kitty  I'd  feel 
quite  happy.  There,  if  you  like,  is  complete  detachment 
from  the  world.  Well,  well,  let  us  hope  for  the  best." 

After  a  few  seconds'  silent  fingering  of  her  beads  she  said 
thoughtfully : 


172  Vocations 

"You  must  put  up  an  iron  paling  along  two  sides  of  the 
river  meadow,  Michael— the  sisters  would  be  so  frightened 
of  the  cows.  Perhaps,  indeed,  it  would  be  better  not  to  keep 
cows  there  at  all." 

"I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about  the  kitchen  range," 
Mother  Michael  said  hastily. 


Chapter  11 

KITTY  watched  the  shadows  grow  darker  and 
darker.     The  stained-glass  window  behind  the 
high  altar  was  a  black  smudge.    The  little  red 
lamp  in  front  of  the  tabernacle  twinkled  more 
luminously.     In  the  fading  light  the  silence  grew  deeper. 
The  sacristy  clock  hammered  out  the  seconds  with  a  force 
and  clearness  that  added  to  the  stillness.    There  was  some- 
thing soothing  and  protecting  in  the  regular,  detached,  slow 
beats.     Only  unexpected  sounds,  the  banging  of  a  door 
somewhere  far  away  in  the  convent,  a  distant  burst  of  laugh- 
ter, desecrated  the  quiet  and  peace. 

A  sigh  from  Winnie's  stall  opposite  seemed  like  a  groan  of 
pain.  Kitty  started  and  glanced  across  nervously,  but  was 
reassured  by  the  immobility  of  the  dim  white  figure.  She 
settled  herself  back  on  her  heels,  half  kneeling,  half  sitting, 
and  leant  her  shoulder  against  the  side  of  her  stall  with  a 
sigh.  The  menacing  sound  had  made  her  nervous.  She 
smiled  wryly  as  she  pulled  herself  together.  The  retreat 
was  telling  on  her,  but  it  was  practically  over  now.  The 
nuns  would  soon  be  in  for  night  prayer;  then  bed,  a  long 
sleep  in  the  morning,  and  her  last  farewell  to  the  world  at 
eleven. 

Could  she  sleep  at  all  this  night  of  nights?  But  that  was 
only  a  scap  of  some  one  else's  talk.  She  just  felt  tired  and 
languid — not  at  all  exalted,  as  Mother  Calixta  said  novices 
felt  on  the  night  before  their  profession.  Perhaps  the  exal- 
tation would  come  at  the  supreme  moment  when  she  made 
her  vows — those  wonderful  vows  of  poverty,  chastity  and 
obedience.  She  murmured  the  words  under  her  breath  in  a 
tone  of  awe ;  but  sighed  at  the  lack  of  response  in  her  feel- 
ings. Was  she  always  to  suffer  from  this  aridity  of  soul? 
There  was  no  glow  of  feeling  such  as  Father  Bernardine 
173 


174  V  ocations 

promised  her.  Nothing  but  bleak  mountains  which  she  had 
to  climb  arduously,  cold  at  heart.  And  that  was  only  some- 
times. Mostly  it  was  merely  drifting  with  the  current  with- 
out any  feeling  at  all.  Perhaps  the  many  rehearsals,  the 
effort  to  remember  the  proper  bow,  the  right  response,  had 
deadened  her  capacity  for  feeling.  God  would  one  day — 
perhaps  to-morrow — unlock  her  feelings  and  allow  her  mind 
and  her  heart  to  act  in  unison.  It  was  so  hard  to  go  on 
spurring  her  mind  without  any  response  from  her  heart.  Yet 
she  knew  she  was  right.  Father  Bernardine  over  and  over 
again  had  made  it  quite  clear.  God  had  marked  out  the  path 
for  her.  The  convent  was  her  only  way  of  salvation  and 
atonement.  If  only  her  feelings  would  for  once  come  to  her 
aid.  Even  in  the  presence  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament  there 
was  only  this  hard,  mechanical  belief.  She  knew  God  was 
there  now,  loving  her,  helping  her.  Her  mind  accepted  it, 
believed  in  it  firmly.  She  wanted  to  feel  gratitude,  but  her 
heart  was  like  a  dry  well.  So  with  her  vocation.  It  was  an 
eternal  truth,  decreed,  Father  Bernardine  said,  from  before 
time  was.  But  it  gave  her  no  emotion. 

Not  that  she  had  no  feelings.  Unhappily  she  had.  Feel- 
ings that  she  had  failed  to  bring  under  the  sway  of  her  mind. 
It  was  her  punishment  that  the  devil  had  so  much  power  to 
tempt  her  through  her  emotions.  Those  emotions  that  she 
could  not  subdue  to  the  service  of  God  were  easily  moved  by 
temptations  of  the  devil.  When  she  thought  she  had  com- 
pletely mastered  them  they  grew  again  in  strength;  and  it 
was  only  by  almost  superhuman  prayer  that  she  prevented 
them  from  conquering  her.  It  was  as  if  she  were  the  guar- 
dian of  a  fragile  dyke  against  which  great  waves  beat:  her 
puny  mind  and  will  against  the  turbid  waves  of  her  lower 
nature.  In  the  crises  of  furious  storms  it  was  only  one  last, 
almost  despairing,  cry  to  God  that  had  saved  her.  Even  then 
she  could  feel  no  gratitude.  She  could  only  thank  God  with 
her  mind  and  her  moving  lips.  ...  It  was  so  odd  that 
God  should  give  the  devil  such  power  in  His  own  world — 
but  she  must  not  think.  That,  too,  was  a  wile  of  the  devil. 
God  gave  sufficient  grace  to  resist  all  temptations.  And  re- 


Vocations  175 

cently,  thank  God,  they  had  been  less  active.  Perhaps  it 
was  the  approach  of  her  profession.  .  .  .  Her  vows  would 
be  new  weapons  against  the  devil. 

One,  two.  Half-past  eight.  How  long  time  took  in  pass- 
ing. Half  an  hour  yet  before  the  nuns  came  to  night  prayer. 
What  was  Winnie  thinking  of?  She  might  be  asleep,  she 
was  so  still  and  silent.  How  little  she  knew  about  Winnie! 
The  convent,  instead  of  bringing  them  closer  to  one  an- 
other, had  divided  them.  How  little  one  knew  about  any 
of  the  nuns ! 

She  watched  the  little  lighters  attached  to  the  gas-lamps. 
Soon  a  nun  would  come  and  tug  at  the  chains  and  the  chapel 
would  glow  with  a  brilliant  light.  One  saw  little  of  the  con- 
vent from  the  noviceship.  It  would  be  different  in  the  pro- 
fessed community  room.  What  matter  if  it  all  seemed  so 
trivial?  There  was  the  greater  glory  of  God  to  be  worked 
for,  and  the  salvation  of  one's  own  soul. 

Nearly  three  years !  It  seemed  like  an  eternity.  And  she 
might  live  to  be  old.  Reverend  Mother  was  seventy,  and 
Sister  Euphemia  was  nearly  ninety.  She  shuddered  and 
huddled  herself  into  the  corner  of  her  stall. 

She  remembered  so  well  the  blank  desolation  of  the  night 
of  her  entrance.  It  might  have  been  yesterday  in  its  vivid- 
ness; though  the  chasm  that  yawned  across  to  it  made  it 
seem  a  hundred  years :  her  anguish  when  the  door  was  shut 
behind  her.  The  feeling  of  despair  at  the  grating  of  the  key 
in  the  lock.  Her  revulsion  from  those  endless  kisses  that 
congratulated  her  on  her  doom.  It  was  as  if  grinning  devils 
mocked  at  her.  And  in  the  chapel  there  was  only  an  angry 
God  who  frowned  on  her  and  spurned  her.  And  her  relief 
when  she  fainted.  How  suddenly  the  lights  danced  up  and 
down.  The  nuns'  voices  reached  her  from  a  distance  like 
subdued  music.  The  water  Reverend  Mother  put  to  her 
parched  lips  was  a  heavenly  draught,  and  there  was  conso- 
lation in  her  kind,  "I  know,  dear.  You'll  be  all  right  to- 
morrow." Peace  came  only  when  she  was  alone  in  her  little 
whitewashed  cell.  How  well  she  remembered  sitting  on 


176  Vocations 

the  blue-and- white  coverlet  of  her  bed,  noting  with  the 
peace  of  exhaustion  the  scant  white-enamelled  furniture, 
the  bare  waxed  floor,  the  blue-and-white  curtains;  and  the 
curious  sensation  she  had  had  as  of  an  emptiness  of  all  sen- 
sation, a  dead  restful  feeling  from  which  she  had  never  since 
quite  awakened. 

But  that  was  nonsense.  She  was  always  quite  wide  awake- 
She  smiled  faintly.  She  saw  all  the  absurdities  of  the  novice- 
ship! 

Her  mind  moved  over  the  past,  to  and  fro,  like  a  shuttle- 
cock :  the  peace  of  the  long  nights  and  the  times  of  silence 
and  the  agony  of  the  recreations.  It  was  as  if  she  had  grown 
suddenly  old  and  Winnie  and  many  of  the  novices  had  gone 
back  to  the  nursery.    They  couldn't  be  as  foolish  as  they 
seemed.    She  knew  nothing  of  them,  just  as  they  knew  noth- 
ing of  her.    Nothing,  thank  God,  of  the  storms  of  temptation 
that  left  her  pale  and  exhausted.     She  knew  too  much  of 
real  sin  to  toy  with  danger.    Winnie  was  one  of  the  silliest. 
She  spoke  of  Father  Burke  as  if  he  were  a  lover — but  that 
must  be  the  recklessness  of  innocence.    She  spoke  of  half  a 
dozen  saints  in  the  same  words,  and  of  several  nuns.    Even 
Father  Brady  had  his  devoted  admirers ;  while  almost  the 
whole  noviceship  was  in  adoration  before  Father  Bernardine. 
There  was  nothing  wrong,  of  course — just  mere  silliness. 
But  how  often  their  talk,  the  perpetual  comparison  of  their 
stages  of  "gone-ness"  was  the  occasion  of  temptation  to  her. 
They  called  her  a  prig  because  she  wouldn't  join  in  their 
game  of  placing  the  objects  of  her  affections  in  their  order 
of  precedence.    But  it  was  only  because  she  was  afraid.  Her 
emotions,  frigid  in  her  intercourse  with  God,  played  her 
curious  tricks  when  the  novices  spoke  of  love.    When  they 
boasted  lightly  of  their  "number  one,"  "number  two"  or 
"number  three,"  her  set  face  indicated,  not  condemnation 
as  they  thought,  but  her  effort  to  guard  herself  from  sin. 
Nothing  in  the  convent  had  been  difficult  except  the  recre- 
ations.    Not  the  obedience,  not  the  work,  not  the  ordered 
monotony  of  the  daily  round,  nothing  except  the  constant 
direct  and  indirect  references  to  sex.    Not  even  the  saints 


V  ocations  177 

and  angels  were  exempt.  St.  Stanislaus  was  a  greater  dar- 
ling than  St.  Aloysius.  One  novice  was  "gone"  on  St.  Vin- 
cent, another  on  St.  Benedict  Joseph  Labre.  There  was  open 
jealousy  over  the  priests.  Sister  Camilla  was  accused  of 
making  eyes  at  Father  Burke,  and  Sister  Chrysostom  of 
waylaying  Father  Bernardine  in  the  corridor.  A  handker- 
chief of  his  was  put  up  to  auction  by  a  prayer-collecting 
novice  and  scraps  fetched  as  much  as  ten  rosaries.  She  par- 
ticularly disliked  talk  of  Father  Bernardine.  God  had  used 
him  for  her  salvation;  but  He  was  also  using  him  for  her 
punishment — or,  rather,  He  was  allowing  the  devil  to  use 
him  as  a  temptation.  No,  she  mustn't  dwell  on  him.  It 
would  all  be  different  when  she  was  professed.  Her  vow 
would  help  her. 

A  quarter  to  nine.  How  ghostly  the  chapel  looked  in  the 
gloom  of  the  gas  lighters.  To-morrow  her  hair  would  be  cut 
off.  If  only  her  ghosts  went  with  it.  What  was  Daisy 
Thornton's  baby  like?  Had  he  blue  eyes  like  him — no,  no, 
she  mustn't  think  of  that.  And  Joe  Duggan  had  never  mar- 
ried. He  was  a  great  man  now.  She  was  glad  her  father 
had  helped  him.  He  dressed  more  quietly  and  spoke  better. 
If  he  weren't  so  repulsive  looking?  No,  no,  she  mustn't 
think  of  things  like  that.  And  Father  Burke  had  changed. 
She  really  believed  she  had  done  him  good.  The  one  good 
thing  to  her  credit  was  that  she  had  resisted  him  and  the 
result  on  him  was  wonderful.  He  seemed  to  have  repented. 
Perhaps  he  had  never  been  really  wicked.  It  was  not  for 
her  to  cast  stones.  He  should  not  have  allowed  himself  to 
fall  in  love  with  her,  of  course.  He  cared  for  her  still — she 
could  see  that.  But  she  was  sure  that  it  was  now  in  a  holy 
way.  He  did  his  best  to  avoid  her,  and  when  they  met,  he 
was  so  gentle.  He  never  even  tried  to  hold  her  hand,  and 
if  he  held  it  sometimes  unconsciously,  she  knew  from  the 
way  he  dropped  it  suddenly  that  he  was  fighting  a  noble 
battle.  He  had  really  good  taste  in  music,  and  there  was 
something  very  sympathetic  in  his  singing  voice.  It  was 
absurd  of  Winnie  to  be  jealous  of  her.  She  had  got  over 
her  dislike  of  Father  Burke,  but  he  could  never  be  anything 


178  Vocations 

more  than  a  friend.  Winnie  was  frivolous  and  couldn't  see 
that  he  had  grown  serious.  .  .  . 

She  shook  herself  and  knelt  straight.  She  mustn't  allow 
these  distractions  to-night  of  all  nights!  She  should  be 
thinking  of  her  vows.  Poverty  was  nothing.  Notwithstand- 
ing all  Mother  Calixta  said  it  seemed  to  be  a  joke.  They 
weren't  poor.  And  obedience  saved  one  the  trouble  of  think- 
ing. Mother  Calixta  told  one  to  do  some  silly  things,  but 
that  was  because  she  was  so  silly.  Reverend  Mother  was 
different.  Chastity?  Oh,  that  God  would  make  that  vow 
her  strong  armour.  She  wished  she  knew  more  about  it. 
But  Mother  Calixta  was  always  vague.  Even  Father  Ber- 
nardine  was  disappointing  in  his  direction  and  in  his  con- 
vent sermons.  He  never  spoke  to  nuns,  he  said,  on  gross 
subjects ;  never  even  mentioned  hell  and  toned  down  Purga- 
tory till  it  seemed  a  desirable  place  to  live  in.  ... 
Would  her  vow  remove  those  horrid  temptations  of  the  flesh 
altogether?  restore  her  to  the  original  innocence  of  Eve? 
Father  Bernardine  said,  yes.  But  then  he  had  said  that  the 
convent  would,  and  the  convent  hadn't.  She  didn't  know. 
Or  would  her  vow,  as  Mother  Calixta  said,  be  a  sort  of 
supernatural  help  that  stilled  the  passions  ?  Anyhow,  Father 
Brady  couldn't  be  right  when  he  said  she'd  be  only  exchang- 
ing a  whip  for  a  scorpion.  He  was  getting  more  crabby  as 
he  grew  older,  and  practically  all  the  nuns  except  Reverend 
Mother  and  a  few  old  black  veils  had  given  him  up  as  a 
confessor.  Besides,  he  had  never  forgiven  her  for  coming 
into  the  convent;  and  when  she  went  to  him  with  a  diffi- 
culty he  told  her  cruelly  to  go  out  home  and  get  married. 
It  was  so  odd  he  hadn't  more  spiritual  discrimination,  for 
he  was  kind  in  many  ways,  and  Reverend  Mother  said  he 
was  a  saint.  Everything  was  so  difficult  to  understand. 
Anyhow,  he  couldn't  say  that  to  her  any  more.  Thank  God, 
to-morrow  she'd  be  bound  to  God  irrevocably  and  the  devil 
would  knock  in  vain  at  her  heart. 

She  turned  her  eyes  towards  the  tabernacle  and  prayed. 
Her  lips  were  dry.  When  she  thought  of  God  He  seemed 
suddenly  to  desert  her.  She  had  nothing  to  offer.  She  was 


V  ocations  179 

an  empty  husk  without  an  idea,  without  words.  Oh,  for  one 
moment  of  Winnie's  fervour !  It  was  no  use,  she  couldn't 
pray.  .  .  . 

And  there  were  those  other  images  coming  again.  Why 
had  God  given  her  a  body  and  feeling,  and  emotions  that 
seemed  meant  for  no  other  purpose  but  to  offend  Him 
.  .  .  oh,  thank  God,  there  were  the  lights  at  last. 

She  watched  the  leisurely  lay-sister  turn  on  light  after 
light.  If  the  nuns  would  only  come  quickly.  And  she  had 
been  so  safe  all  day.  Why  didn't  they  hurry?  There  it  was 
striking  nine — two,  three  four.  She  set  her  lips  and  counted 
the  strokes  desperately.  God  would  surely  give  her  the 
strength  to  hold  out.  Oh,  there  were  the  nuns  at  last.  The 
formal  night  prayers  would  be  a  help.  The  mere  swish  of 
the  nuns'  trains  trailing  along  the  pavement  was  a  help.  Oh 
God,  not  that.  No,  no.  It  was  a  last  effort  of  the  devil, 
but  with  God's  help  she'd  overcome  him.  God  was  subject- 
ing her  to  this  last  trial  of  strength.  She  couldn't  pray.  Her 
throat  was  parched.  Oh,  that  wonderful  thrill.  How  beau- 
tiful it  was — just  as  if  Heaven  had  opened.  No,  she  hadn't 
consented.  It  was  the  devil  making  believe  that  her  will 
had  given  way.  She  had  asked  God  to  help  and  He  couldn't 
refuse.  She  was  feeling  better  already.  .  .  .  She  joined 
in  the  responses.  The  united  prayers  of  the  nuns  were  a 
thanks-offering  to  God  for  her.  They  would  sustain  her 
now  and  always.  Why  did  this  struggle  to  overcome  the 
devil  always  leave  her  so  weak?  But  she  mustn't  think  of  it 
or  it  might  come  on  again.  If  she  could  only  sleep,  and  not 
dream.  .  .  .  The  tabernacle  door  was  a  glowing  flame,  and 
through  it  God  at  last  was  smiling  at  her.  .  .  . 

When  a  tug  at  her  veil  awoke  her,  she  was  suckling  a 
pink-and-white  chubby  baby  with  yellow  hair  and  wonder- 
ful blue  eyes,  full  of  a  deep  content.  A  happy  smile  was 
still  in  her  face  as  she  turned  towards  Reverend  Mother. 

"Bed,  now,  dear,"  the  old  nun  said,  with  a  smile.  "You 
mustn't  even  pray  too  much — the  nuns  have  all  gone  to  bed. 
You  must  be  strong  for  to-morrow.  I  needn't  ask  if  you  feel 
happy.  You  look  it." 


180  Vocations 

"I  am." 

She  still  smiled,  happy  and  half  dazed. 

"Good  night,  dear,  God  bless  you,"  Reverend  Mother  said 
as  she  shuffled  off. 

Kitty  stared  at  the  lay-sister  putting  out  the  lights.  It  was 
such  a  queer  dream  to  have,  yet  it  gave  her  a  sort  of  holy 
feeling,  made  her  feel  as  if  she  could  really  pray.  Ah,  that 
was  it.  Dreams  always  went  by  opposites,  and  God  had  sent 
it  to  console  her,  to  confirm  her  virginity,  to  assure  her  that 
her  vocation  was  real.  .  .  . 

The  lay-sister  coughed,  and  Kitty  hurried  away,  murmur- 
ing a  fervent  prayer  of  gratitude  and  thanskgiving. 


Chapter  is 

WHEN  Winnie  gave  the  deep  sigh  that  echoed 
through  the  darkening  chapel  and  frightened 
Kitty,  she  was  feeling  happy  and  contented. 
The  excitement  of  the  retreat  was  practically 
over,  the  excitement  of  the  profession  was  still  twelve  hours 
off,  and  it  was  nice  to  have  a  rest  in  between. 

She  settled  herself  down  comfortably.  Her  mind  wan- 
dered fitfully  back  over  a  happy  past  and  forward  to  a 
roseate  future:  three  years  of  almost  unclouded  hapiness; 
and  the  future  was  even  more  promising.  In  the  early  days 
there  had  been  difficulties,  small  clouds  that  passed  as  sum- 
mer showers,  but,  once  she  had  learned  to  adapt  herself  fully 
to  the  convent  life,  nothing  really  troubled  her.  Father 
Burke  had  been  a  great  help,  and  Sister  Eulalie,  but,  as  they 
said,  she  must  always  have  had  in  her  the  makings  of  a 
sensible  nun. 

It  wasn't  God's  will  to  deprive  one  of  everything.  The 
human  affections  were  the  best  foundation  for  divine  love. 
Once  the  great  sacrifice  had  been  made,  and  one  had  given 
up  one's  home  and  the  pleasures  of  the  world  for  the  rigour 
of  conventual  life,  God  allowed  one  a  good  deal  of  latitude. 
She  did  not  love  God  less  because  she  loved  Father  James ; 
indeed,  she  loved  Him  more.  With  a  deep  human  love  in 
one's  heart  one  knew  what  one  was  talking  about  when  one 
prayed.  It  would  never  do,  of  course,  to  love  a  layman, 
but  a  priest  was  something  sacred  in  himself.  She  never 
prayed  with  more  fervour  than  when  she  was  feeling  lonely 
for  Father  James.  And  kissing  him  was  almost  a  prayer 
in  itself,  it  made  her  feel  so  happy  and  so  holy.  .  .  .  Mary 
was  exalted  above  Martha,  because  Martha  fussed  about 
while  Mary  loved.  Mary  knew  human  love  and  was  pre- 
ferred by  God.  Such  a  lot  of  the  nuns  were  Marthas.  They 
181 


.182  Vocations 

were  strict  and  priggish  and  self-important  and  were  never 
satisfied  but  when  they  were  trying  to  make  life  miserable 
for  themselves  and  everyone  else.  She  knew;  for  she  had 
almost  been  a  Martha  when  Father  James  rescued  her.  .  .  . 

She'd  never  forget  the  night  of  her  entrance :  the  despair 
of  going  into  the  convent  just  when  she  had  awakened  into 
life;  the  first  gleam  of  hope  in  Sister  Eulalie's  whisper  as 
they  kissed,  "I've  arranged  about  the  sacristy — you'll  see 
him  in  the  morning";  the  mingled  hope,  fear  and  doubt  of 
the  night;  the  bliss  of  the  few  minutes  after  Mass  in  the 
back  sacristy.  And  heaven  had  never  entirely  shut  since. 
There  were  scruples  she  had  to  fight  down  before  he  had 
fully  taught  her  to  walk  fearlessly  in  faith.  Like  the  ad- 
miral in  some  battle  one  had  to  shut  an  eye  to  rules  and 
regulations.  But  God  forgave  minor  breaches  of  the  law 
in  the  great  love  she  was  able  to  offer  Him.  Rules  were  right 
enough  for  the  Marthas  who  could  never  be  anything  but 
paving-stones  in  heaven;  but  for  the  elect,  as  Father  James 
said,  they  were  hindrances  that  it  was  often  meritorious  to 
ignore.  One  had  to  be  prudent,  of  course,  for  the  Marthas 
were  terribly  suspicious  and  weren't  spiritual  enough  to  un- 
derstand things.  .  .  .  The  risks  she  ran  had  often  made 
her  blood  run  cold.  But  in  time  all  fear  disappeared  in  her 
great  love  and  she  realized  that  God  must  have  been  protect- 
ing her.  .  .  .  The  saci  isty  was  simple  enough ;  but  the  in- 
fant school  during  the  night  recreation  was  worse  than  the 
enchanted  forest  to  the  princess  in  the  fairy  tale.  One  had 
to  tell  white  fibs,  and  might  never  meet  anyone  anywhere. 
But  it  all  made  one  so  brave  and  wise.  That  was  the  won- 
derful thing  about  love ;  how  it  had  made  her  grow.  She 
used  to  be  so  much  afraid  of  a  mouse  and  of  hell ;  but  now 
she  was  afraid  of  nothing,  not  even  of  waiting  for  him  in 
the  dark  in  the  church  walk.  Nor  of  sin ;  since  she  knew 
that  there  was  no  sin  in  the  love  of  the  divinely  appointed. 
Why,  she  used  even  to  be  timid  of  Kitty;  and  now  she  felt 
hundreds  of  years  older  and  wiser. 

She  glanced  across  at  Kitty's  stall  with  a  satisfied  smile. 
She  heard  a  succession  of  slight  groans  and  smiled  super- 


Vocations  183 

ciliously.  There  was  a  Martha  if  ever  there  was  one  ... 
a  box  of  scruples,  afraid  of  her  own  shadow.  It  must  be 
that;  or  why  was  Kitty  such  a  spoil-sport  at  recreation?  If 
she  only  worked  up  a  "particular"  for  some  one  she'd  be  far 
happier.  For  anyone  except,  of  course,  Father  James.  She 
didn't  mind  his  having  some  of  the  older  nuns  for  number 
two  or  three ;  but  not  Kitty.  .  .  .  Strict  observance  of  rule 
might  be  all  a  pose  of  Kitty's  to  attract  attention.  Some  of 
the  frumpy  old  muffs  were  saying  already  that  Kitty  would 
be  a  Mother  one  day — maybe  Reverend  Mother. 

She  smiled  knowingly.  What  a  sell  it  would  be  for  the 
Marthas  when  Eulalie  was  Reverend  Mother.  Poor  old 
Reverend  Mother  Teresa  was  a  bit  of  a  nuisance.  She  was 
nice  enough  in  a  way;  but  she  had  a  disconcerting  way  of 
looking  at  one,  and  of  shooting  out  an  awkward  question. 
And  she  kept  Michael  in  office  who  had  eyes  that  could  pierce 
like  a  gimlet.  Calixta  was  all  right  and  was  a  bit  gone  on 
the  bishop  and  Father  Bernardine.  For  the  present,  Eulalie 
said,  no  one  could  be  better  in  the  noviceship  than  Calixta, 
who  was  such  a  softy.  When  Reverend  Mother  had  gone 
a  little  more  astray  on  flowers  and  glasshouses  Eulalie 
would  spring  her  mine  .  .  .  Eulalie  was  a  duck.  She  un- 
derstood things.  One  didn't  tell  her  everything,  of  course, 
though  one  might,  almost,  if  Father  James  wasn't  so  partic- 
ular about  keeping  such  sacred  things,  as  it  were,  under  the 
seal  of  confession.  Freedom  was  Eulalie's  motto.  When 
she  was  Reverend  Mother  one  shouldn't  have  to  run  to  holes 
and  corners.  Unless  Kitty  changed  she'd  be  a  nobody  un- 
der Eulalie.  She'd  always  have  her  face,  of  course;  and 
she'd  look  still  better  in  the  black  veil.  Even  old  priests  liked 
talking  to  her ;  and  the  new  curate  at  Derrydonnelly  couldn't 
take  his  eyes  off  her.  .  .  . 

What  had  come  over  Kitty  at  all?  She  used  to  be  such 
fun  at  school.  Still,  one  never  knew  with  those  secretive 
ones.  Once  or  twice  she  had  caught  Father  James  looking 
at  Kitty  in  a  queer  sort  of  way,  but  he  had  sworn  he  didn't 
care  a  pin  for  her.  .  .  .  And  Kitty  had  changed  in  her 
manner  to  him  lately.  Nothing  much  to  worry  about  yet; 


184  Vocations 

but  those  saint's  eyes  of  hers  were  dangerous,  and  one 
couldn't  help  being  afraid  she'd  use  them.  .  .  . 

It  was  odd  how  both  she  and  Kitty  had  changed.  The 
convent  was  wonderful.  It  freed  the  souls  of  the  chosen, 
Sister  Eulalie  said,  and  tightened  up  others.  While  broad- 
ening her  own  soul,  it  had  narrowed  Kitty's.  .  .  .  She  was 
sorry  now  in  a  way  that  she  had  prayed  so  hard  for  Kitty 
to  come  in.  Kitty  was  just  a  wet  blanket  of  a  rule-keeper, 
and  wasn't  even  really  pious.  She  didn't  go  in  for  the  rosary 
competition  during  the  jubilee  and  had  no  favourite  saints 
.  .  .  while  she,  Winnie,  had  eleven  and  Patrica  had  seven- 
teen. That  reminded  her.  .  .  .  She  must  finish  the  novena 
for  the  river  meadow. 

She  shut  her  eyes  and  prayed  for  a  few  minutes  with 
fervour.  So  much  done.  St.  Benedict  was  rather  a  muff, 
but  he  was  an  old  dear  for  getting  land  and  things.  Who 
was  that  new  saint  Patricia  praised  for  being  such  a  brick? 
He  cured  her  of  toothache,  or  was  it  an  ingrowing  nail? 
Anyhow,  he  was  wonderful,  and  as  prompt  as  prompt.  Her 
mother  was  always  on  the  look-out  for  saints  like  that — 
she'd  tell  her  about  him.  And  he'd  do  finely  for  Calixta's 
novena.  Calixta  was  a  dear,  though  she  was  a  greedy-gut 
for  novenas  and  rosaries.  It  was  to  get  her  brother  an  in- 
crease of  pay  this  time.  That  would  be  easy  after  getting 
him  the  Commissionership  with  the  last  novena;  and  the 
novices  would  put  their  whole  hearts  into  it.  ... 

Heigh-ho.  What  was  keeping  the  sisters  ?  There  was  no 
chance  of  seeing  him  to-night.  But  he  promised  faithfully 
to  come  to  the  infant  school  to-morrow  night.  She  mustn't 
forget  to  unlock  the  door.  And  he'd  be  master  of  cere- 
monies to-morrow,  and  wear  the  new  lace  surplice  her 
mother  gave  him  for  her.  The  bishop  looked  so  mean  beside 
him.  He'd  look  so  wonderful  in  a  cope  and  mitre.  If  priests 
weren't  so  jealous  he'd  be  a  bishop.  It  would  be  wonderful 
to  see  him  in  purple  and  jewels  ...  a  sort  of  king  .  .  . 
god-like  .... 

She  held  her  breath  in  ecstasy.  She  shivered  a  little  and 
frowned.  But  then,  he'd  have  to  live  at  Caltra  .  .  .  miles 


Vocations  185 

away.  Never  that,  never,  never.  She'd  hardly  ever  see  him. 
No,  he  mustn't  be  a  bishop.  But  parish  priest  of  Drumbawn 
would  be  lovely — if  only  God  took  that  dreadful  Father 
Brady.  With  Father  James  parish  priest,  and  Sister  Eulalie 
Reverend  Mother,  the  convent  would  be  heaven.  .  .  . 

Here  were  the  nuns  at  last  and  she  hadn't  had  time  to 
meditate  much  on  her  vows.  The  Finnegans  would  be  sure 
to  be  at  the  ceremony,  and  the  Miss  Purcells,  and  maybe  the 
Thorntons.  She  hoped  nothing  would  induce  her  mother  to 
wear  that  new  hat.  The  poppies  would  be  too  awful,  espe- 
cially before  the  stuck-up  Finnegans.  The  two  cakes  had 
come  all  right.  Magnificent  .  .  .  three  tiers.  It  was  so 
much  more  distinguished  to  have  a  cake  each.  And  the 
dinkiest  little  ornaments.  Powdering  her  face  wouldn't  do 
Stella  Finnegan  much  good.  She'd  be  coming  into  the  con- 
vent in  despair  one  day  and  she'd  be  very  soon  taught  her 
place — there  were  several  novices  with  snubs  to  pay  back. 
The  idea  of  offering  to  God  what  she  couldn't  get  any  man 
to  take !  But  this  was  envy  and  jealousy,  and  she  must  keep 
free  of  all  sin  to-night.  .  .  . 

She  joined  in  a  few  responses,  her  mind  wandering  among 
the  elaborate  decorations  of  the  high  altar.  Eulalie  was  a 
dear  to  have  done  so  much — far  finer  than  when  Leo  was 
professed. 

There  was  distinction,  too,  in  having  kept  their  own 
names.  She  had  never  known  that  to  happen  before — Kitty 
had,  of  course,  to  change  the  K  of  Katherine  into  a  C.  Still, 
they  were  bringing  a  great  deal  into  the  convent  and  de- 
served consideration ;  and  her  mother  was  presenting  a  new 
monstrance — silver  gilt  and  beautifully  jewelled.  And  if  her 
father  gave  the  field?  Their  vow  of  poverty  would  mean 
something;  not  like  Leo's  who  hadn't  a  penny.  .  .  .  She 
was  glad  she  was  able  to  give  up  so  much  to  God.  To- 
morrow she  shouldn't  own  a  penny.  It  would  be  thrilling 
to  sign  one's  will  just  before  one  made  one's  vows.  Her 
mother  had  promised  to  keep  them  well  supplied,  but,  of 
course,  that  didn't  count.  One  viewed  vows  in  the  spirit 
and  not  in  the  letter,  as  Father  James  said.  Calixta  was 


186  Vocations 

rather  silly  in  explaining  them  just  as  if  they  should  be  taken' 
literally — it  was  only  the  Marthas  did  that,  or  pretended. 
But  there  was  no  law  for  the  heart  except  a  little  prudence, 
Father  James  said.  And,  of  course,  she  was  prudent.  Even 
Calixta,  who  wasn't  really  a  bad  sort  and  might  understand, 
didn't  find  out  much  for  all  her  probing.  She  was  more 
afraid  of  one  look  of  Michael's.  Eulalie  would  put  her  on 
the  shelf  the  first  thing.  Not  that  Michael  saw  much  either 
— one  was  wise  enough  for  that.  And  dear  old  Reverend 
Mother  had  almost  lost  her  eyesight  for  everything  but 
flowers.  One  should  have  to  be  more  careful  in  the  com- 
munity room  all  the  same.  Some  of  the  black  veils  had  eyes 
like  hawks.  The  Marthas  were  bad  enough,  but  one  wasn't 
safe  even  from  the  Marys — especially  those  who  were  gone 
on  Father  James.  It  was  really  scandalous  of  old  nuns  like 
Gregory  and  Martin — forty  if  they  were  a  day.  .  .  . 

She  said  the  final  "Amen"  with  a  snap.  Kitty  would  be 
such  a  nuisance,  too.  If  only  she'd  lose  her  head  on  Father 
Bernardine  or  some  one.  .  .  . 

She  was  half  off  her  knees  when  she  thought  of  her  special 
intentions.  She  sank  back  on  her  heels  and  prayed  furiously, 
consulting  at  intervals  a  written  slip  between  the  pages  of 
her  Office  book.  After  a  few  minutes  she  put  away  her  book 
with  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  looked  around.  .  .  .  There  was 
Muredach  going  out.  She'd  catch  her  up  and  they'd  have  a 
word  on  the  stairs  if  none  of  the  Mothers  were  about.  It 
was  too  dangerous  in  the  cells,  the  night  before  profession — 
a  Mother  might  pop  in  any  minute.  There  was  still  the 
rosary  she  swapped  with  Macartan,  but  that  could  wait. 

She  hurried  after  Muredach,  passed  her  in  the  corridor, 
slowed  down  and  coughed. 

"What  does  it  feel  like,  Win?"  Muredach  said,  in  a 
hushed  awed  whisper  to  the  floor  as  she  drew  abreast. 

"Tremendous,"  Winnie  said,  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"Pie  and  all  that?  I  never  felt  a  bit  when  I  was  re- 
ceived," Muredach  said  dolefully. 

"Profession  is  different,"  Winnie  said,  with  a  sniff  of 
superiority.  "I'm  nearly  bursting." 


Vocations  187 

"I  had  a  peep  at  the  cakes.  They're  scrumps,"  Mure- 
dach  said  greedily.  "You  won't  forget  to  bag  an  extra  bit 
for  the  noviceship,  Win?  We're  all  praying  for  you  like 
mad." 

"As  if  I  could  forget!  I  hope  it's  to  Stanislaus  you've 
been  praying,  and  not  to  that  little  prig  Aloysius?" 

"Of  course!  And  plenty  of  the  almond  icing,  Win.  I 
could  eat  tons  of  it." 

"Mother  is  sending  a  special  box  for  the  novices,"  Win- 
nie said,  with  condescension.  "Chocs  and  fondants  and 
marrons  glaces." 

"O-oh!"  Muredach  said,  with  breathless  excitement. 

The  approach  of  Mother  Michael  made  them  fall  apart. 
Winnie  lingered  on  the  stairs,  but  Muredach  doubled  back 
to  impart  the  joyful  news  to  a  chum.  People  with  hair  like 
Muredach's  were  always  selfish  pigs,  Winnie  thought  resent- 
fully, as  she  walked  slowly  to  her  cell.  Little  tears  gathered 
on  her  eyelashes.  How  stupid  of  her  to  remind  herself  of 
the  one  thing  she  was  anxious  to  forget.  Her  hair!  The 
only  real  sorrow  of  her  profession.  If  it  was  anyone  else 
but  God  who  demanded  it,  she'd  die  first.  It  was  almost 
cruel  of  Him.  Muredach's  hair  was  beautiful,  but  it  wasn't 
a  patch  on  hers.  And  to  cut  it  off  with  a  shears!  She 
groped  to  the  gas  jet  and  turned  it  on  fully.  It  wasn't  for 
nothing  she  was  named  after  the  holy  martyr,  St.  Winifred. 
It  was  almost  as  bad  to  have  one's  hair  cut  off  as  one's  head 
— especially  such  hair.  But  she'd  be  brave.  There  was  no 
sacrifice  she  wasn't  prepared  to  make  for  God.  Besides, 
very  few  had  seen  it,  covered  as  it  had  been  by  veil  and  dim- 
ity, for  over  two  years.  .  .  .  And  Father  James  said  he 
loved  her  for  herself  alone.  .  .  . 

She  took  off  her  veil  and  guimpe  and  let  her  hair  fall  over 
her  face  and  shoulders.  She  passed  her  fingers  tenderly 
through  the  fine  strands,  let  the  light  play  on  the  gold,  and 
sighed  deeply.  Who  could  say  that  she  wasn't  making  a 
sacrifice  to  God?  Tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  Would 
she  get  the  mirror  hidden  behind  the  drawer?  No,  she 
couldn't  bear  to  look  at  her  glory.  Except  just  this  way, 


188  Vocations 

with  its  beauty  half  blinding  her.  And  her  nose  would  be 
red  and  her  face  blotchy.  It  was  too  cruel.  She  cried 
quietly,  and,  after  a  while,  smilingly.  God  always  gave 
compensations,  Eulalie  said.  If  He  was  taking  her  hair,  He 
had  given  her  much  ...  her  vocation  .  .  .  Father  James. 

A  knock  at  the  door  made  her  start.  It  couldn't  be  "lights 
out"  already. 

"It's  I — Reverend  Mother,"  came  through  the  open  fan- 
light. 

Winnie  made  a  dash  for  her  guimpe  and  veil  and  put  them 
on  hastily.  She  was  pushing  loose  strands  of  hair  up  under 
her  dimity  as  she  opened  the  door  with  a  flushed  face. 

"Oh,  dear  Reverend  Mother.  To  keep  you  waiting  like 
this!  I  was  half  undressed/'  she  said  simpering. 

"Humph !  You  look  excited,  child.  What's  wrong  with 
you?  Shut  the  door  and  let's  sit  on  the  bed,"  Reverend 
Mother  said  brusquely,  looking  over  her  spectacles. 

"Just  happiness,  Reverend  Mother.  Profession  is  so  won- 
derful." 

"What  were  you  crying  for,  then?"  Reverend  Mother 
asked  sharply. 

"Joy,  Reverend  Mother,  dear,"  Winnie  said,  with  that 
simplicity  which  satisfied  Mother  Calixta.  "I  always  cry 
when  I'm  happy." 

"Humph.  Sit  down,  child,"  Reverend  Mother  said  im- 
patiently. "It's  not  yet  too  late,"  she  added,  after  a  pause, 
during  which  she  nervously  fingered  her  beads.  "I  should 
have  spoken  to  you  before  about  it,  but  one  thing  and  an- 
other. .  .  .  Well,  to-night,  I  felt  I  must." 

"Yes,  Reverend  Mother."  Winnie  faltered.  She  pulled 
at  her  guimpe,  stroked  the  coverlet  of  the  bed  in  a  vain  effort 
to  force  back  a  blush  that  she  felt  was  growing  deeper.  Was 
it  about  Father  James,  or  what?  She  avoided  Reverend 
Mother's  eyes  which  she  was  sure  were  looking  at  her  over 
the  spectacles.  One  never  knew  from  Reverend  Mother's 
voice  whether  she  was  angry  or  not.  Often  the  more  angry 


locations  189 

she  was,  the  gentler  was  her  voice.  If  she  could  only  look 
her  in  the  face,  but  she  dare  not. 

"I'm  afraid  my  hair  is  falling  down/'  she  added,  with  a 
nervous  giggle,  running  her  fingers  along  the  edge  of  her 
dimity. 

"Have  you  thought  out  everything — the  difficulties  before 
you — your  vows  ?  Now  is  the  time  to  hesitate,  to  doubt,  to 
turn  back,  if  necessary." 

Winnie  gave  a  little  sigh  of  relief.  She  stole  a  glance  at 
Reverend  Mother,  who  was  staring  at  the  polished  floor. 
There  was  nothing,  after  all,  to  worry  about. 

"Why,  goodness  me,  Reverend  Mother,  I've  never  had  a 
doubt  in  my  life.  I  only  wish  God  asked  ten  times  more  of 
me." 

"Is  there  nothing  you  have  a  strong  attachment  to  ?  Noth- 
ing you  find  it  hard  to  give  up  ?" 

"There's  my  hair,  of  course,"  Winnie  said,  after  a  pause, 
her  head  cocked  thoughtfully.  "No  one  sees  it  now,  but  still 
I  always  knew  it  was  there — such  a  comfort.  You  remem- 
ber how  you  used  to  admire  it,  Reverend  Mother?" 

Reverend  Mother  gave  a  jerk  at  her  beads,  pulled  them 
rapidly  through  her  fingers  and  gave  a  weary  little  grunt. 

"There's  nothing  in  any  of  your  vows  that  troubles  you?" 
she  asked. 

"Goodness,  no,  Reverend  Mother.  I  love  them  all.  They 
are  as  easy  as  easy." 

Reverend  Mother  frowned  at  the  floor,  sighed,  sought 
inspiration  in  the  ceiling.  Her  search  there  ended  in  another 
sigh. 

"You're  sure  you  wouldn't  be  happier  in  the  world  ?"  she 
jerked  out. 

Winnie's  look  of  open  candour  became  slightly  resentful. 

"Is  it  me,  Reverend  Mother?  In  the  world?"  she  said 
indignantly.  "I'd  hate  it —  the  roughness,  the  coarseness,  the 
want  of  gentility.  Never  seeing  anyone  nice.  None  of  the 
fun — of  the  spiritual  helps  of  the  convent." 

"You  might  get  married,"  Reverend  Mother  said  grimly. 

"Reverend  Mother!"    Winnie  indignantly  flushed.    This 


190  Vocations 

was  an  insult  to  Father  James.  As  if ,  loving  him,  she  could 
marry  anyone.  A  priest  couldn't  marry.  "I  hate  marriage. 
I  hate  it,"  she  said  violently. 

"Well,  well.  Perhaps  I'm  wrong,"  Reverend  Mother 
muttered  to  her  beads,  half  relieved,  half  doubtful.  "Vows 
aren't  as  simple  as  you  think,"  she  went  on  dreamily.  "I'm 
afraid  I  sin  against  holy  poverty  ten  times  a  day — I'm  plan- 
ning now  to  try  and  get  the  river  meadow  from  your  father. 
It  won't  be  mine — in  a  way.  But  is  my  vow  only  a  subter- 
fuge ?  It's  the  same  with  obedience,  and — well,  well." 

She  roused  herself,  sat  up  straight  on  the  bed  and  peered 
at  Winnie,  whose  indignation  had  given  way  to  a  pitying 
contempt.  Eulalie  was  right.  Reverend  Mother  was  becom- 
ing dotty.  As  if  a  Reverend  Mother  could  sin  against  obe- 
dience 1 

"Father  is  sure  to  give  us  the  river  meadow,"  she  said, 
resuming  the  noviceship  look  of  candour. 

"So  you've  never  been  in  love?"  Reverend  Mother  sud- 
denly shot  out. 

Winnie  shaded  her  glowing  face  with  a  movement  of  her 
veil.  She  felt  proud  and  happy.  Still,  wild  horses  wouldn't 
drag  her  secret  from  her.  And,  somehow,  it  would  be  a  sin 
against  her  love  to  tell  a  lie.  What  should  she  do?  She 
couldn't  explain,  and  if  she  could,  no  one  would  understand. 

"Never  wanted  to  get  married?"  Reverend  Mother  said 
to  bridge  the  pause. 

"Never,"  Winnie  said  primly,  with  an  indignation  that 
equalled  her  relief.  "How  you  do  probe,  Reverend  Mother. 
And  I  answered  that  before,  too.  I  wouldn't  marry  a  king," 
she  added,  with  a  heroic  effort  at  truthfulness.  "I  want  to 
be  a  nun." 

"Well,  well.  Let  us  hope  you'll  never  be  tempted  to 
marry  anyone,"  Reverend  Mother  said  dryly,  snapping  a  link 
in  her  beads.  "That's  the  third  to-day,"  she  added.  "It's 
dreadful,  I  believe,  if  those  feelings  come  to  one  after  one  is 
professed,"  she  went  on,  holding  up  the  severed  ends  of  the 
beads  and  staring  at  them  with  a  troubled  face.  "They  do, 
you  know,  and  then  it  is  dreadful — dreadful.  Love  is  a 


Vocations  191 

terrible  thing,  I'm  told.  In  a  convent  it  is  hell.  .  .  .  Sister 
Matilda  who  mends  them  for  me  will  be  in  bed,"  she  added, 
with  a  sigh,  gathering  the  ends  of  the  rosary  in  her  left 
hand,  "but  I  think  I  have  a  pincers  in  my  room.  Good 
night,  child.  I'm  afraid  it's  long  past  ten,  and  our  lights 
ought  to  be  out." 

She  got  up  heavily  off  the  bed  and  patted  .Winnie's 
shoulder.  "God  bless  you,  child.  I  hope  you'll  never  be 
strongly  tempted.  But  everything  might  turn  out  for  the 
best,"  she  said  wearily. 

"God  will  help  me,"  Winnie  replied,  as  she  held  open  the 
door. 

. .  "He  might — He  might."  Reverend  Mother  said  dreamily, 
again  absorbed  in  her  beads. 

Winnie  watched  Reverend  Mother  plod  heavily  down  the 
corridor.  It  was  so  dreadful  to  be  old.  And  she  could 
never  have  been  in  love.  Hell?  Why,  it  was  heaven.  She 
shut  the  door,  undressed  and  washed  quickly,  put  out  the 
light  and  slipped  into  bed.  The  idea  of  suggesting  that  she 
wanted  to  get  married!  If  it  were  to  him  now,  of  course 
it  would  be  different.  It  would  be  wonderful  to  be  with  him 
alwavs.  But  he  was  a  priest.  Why  had  Reverend  Mother 
put  the  thought  into  her  head — it  made  her  feel  so  lonely 

She'd  see  nothing  but  him  on  the  altar  to-morrow.  And 
he'd  be  holding  the  book  for  the  bishop  while  she  made  her 
vows.  She'd  be  thinking  of  him  so  much  that  she  must  be 
word  perfect.  She  must  go  over  the  words  once  more  in  her 
mind  to  make  sure. 

In  the  middle  of  a  fervent  pledging  of  her  chastity  to  God 
she  dropped  off  into  a  dreamless  sleep. 


Chapter    13 

BRILLIANT  May  sun  smiled  on  the  bustle  of 
the  convent.  Nuns  in  blue-and-white  aprons 
and  sleeve  protectors  spoke  to  one  another  in 
.hurried  whispers,  and  darted  hither  and 
thither  with  preoccupied  faces. 

Sister  Eulalie,  with  three  assistants,  added  the  last  touches 
to  the  decoration  of  the  sanctuary,  and  herself  laid  out  the 
bishop's  vestments  with  loving  care. 

Mother  Michael  superintended  the  preparations  for  the 
dejeuner  in  the  big  reception  room.  Mrs.  Curtin  had  asked 
her  to  spare  no  expense,  and  Mother  Bursar  was  not  averse 
from  a  generous  display  which  entailed  no  strain  on  the  con- 
vent purse.  Her  only  problem  was  to  keep  Mrs.  Curtin's 
lavish  desires  within  the  limits  of  convent  good  taste.  The 
huge  profession  cakes  had  been  placed  in  position  over  night. 
The  best  table-cloths,  the  best  silver  and  glass  gleamed  joy- 
ously. The  frilling  of  roast  fowls,  the  jellies,  the  salmon  in 
aspic  contributed,  with  the  flowers  and  fruit  and  pastry,  to 
an  elaborate  colour  scheme.  Even  the  hock  had  been  de- 
canted in  the  interests  of  harmony;  while  the  more  ostenta- 
tious champagne  was  discreetly  hidden  away  under  a  white 
cloth  on  a  side-table,  humbly  awaiting  the  bishop's  special 
permission  (never  withheld)  for  its  use.  Orphans,  their 
faces  shining  from  a  ceremony  application  of  soap,  peeped 
in  at  the  doors,  said,  "My,"  with  greedy  lips,  scuttled  off 
with  an  "Oh"  at  the  sight  of  Mother  Michael,  and  gathered 
in  groups  round  the  chapel  to  discuss  the  relative  merits  of 
Sister  Winifred  and  Sister  Catherine. 

Novices,  thinking  ahead  of  their  own  professions,  wan- 
dered about  aimlessly  with  an  air  of  suppressed  excitement. 
Older  nuns,  with  no  particular  duty  in  connection  with  the 
ceremony,  made  tours  of  inspection,  sniffed  at  Sister  Eula- 
192 


Vocations  193 

lie's  decoration  of  the  altar  and  Mother  Michael's  arrange- 
ment of  the  table,  fed  the  doves,  said  bored  rosaries  in  the 
beech  avenue  and  discussed  pleasantly  Winnie's  and  Kitty's 
shortcomings.  Old  Sister  Thomasine,  martinet  and  ascetic, 
whose  fever  of  irritation  at  the  interruption  of  her  regular 
school  duties  could  only  be  assuaged  by  Tristram  Shandy, 
sat  chuckling  over  it  in  a  corner  of  the  community  room 
to  the  fury  of  Sister  Ambrose,  who  wasn't  allowed  to  read 
the  books  in  the  top  shelf  and  was  bored  by  The  Path  of 
Christian  Meekness. 

Mother  Calixta  flitted  about  here,  there  any  everywhere, 
with  the  excited  serenity  of  a  beautiful  hen  whose  chickens 
were  bursting  the  shell.  She  said  tender  words  of  encour- 
agement to  Winnie,  and  less  tender,  but  still  motherly,  to 
Kitty.  She  approved  the  work  of  Sister  Eulalie  who  asked 
her,  for  goodness'  sake,  to  keep  out  of  her  way;  of  the 
labours  of  Mother  Michael,  who  merely  sniffed  without  lift- 
ing her  eyes.  She  saw  that  the  rings,  which  were  to  make 
her  dear  children  spouses  of  Christ,  were  in  their  due  place  ; 
that  their  wills  were  ready  for  signature.  She  tested  the 
huge  scissors  on  the  hair  of  a  thrilled  orphan ;  and  moved 
the  black  veils,  made  ready  for  the  profession,  from  the  back 
of  a  chair  to  a  table. 

Kitty,  alone  in  her  cell,  sat  on  the  end  of  her  bed,  her 
face  almost  rivalling  the  spotless  white  of  her  veil,  and  stared 
down  on  Drumbawn,  beautiful  in  a  thin  heat  haze.  She 
had  come  out  of  the  night,  black  with  terror,  successfully, 
she  hoped.  But  the  long  hours  of  waiting  since  the  dawn 
were  terrible.  This  feeling  of  despair,  as  of  a  prisoner 
awaiting  execution,  must  be  a  temptation  of  the  devil.  She 
was  waiting,  not  execution,  but  deliverance.  The  glory  of 
the  sunrise,  and  the  glorious  singing  of  the  birds,  had  shouted 
hope ;  but  there  had  been  no  response  from  her  heart.  The 
joy  and  beauty  of  the  world  seemed  to  touch  the  outer  rim 
of  her  senses,  but  could  not  penetrate  to  the  desolation  that 
filled  her.  The  pearly  softness  of  the  sky,  the  fragrance  of 
the  white  thorn,  the  laughter  of  the  orphans  only  stabbed  her 


194  Vocations 

to  fresh  pain.  ...  Or  was  the  empty,  aching  feeling  just 
hunger  ? 

Winnie  stood  by  the  side  of  her  cell  window  eagerly 
watching  the  front  drive.  It  was  all  perfectly  thrilling. 
Twenty-three  priests !  And  the  bishop,  and  the  town  priests, 
and  the  Dominicans,  and  maybe,  lots  more  hadn't  come  yet. 
There  were  the  Finnegans.  Stella  had  a  new  hat.  Not 
much.  One  would  think  the  whole  place  belonged  to  her. 
Was  that  Mrs.  Thornton?  Yes,  it  was.  And  the  eldest 
Miss  Thornton,  too.  Talk  of  a  swell  profession.  And  the 
Miss  Purcells.  They  were  grand,  of  course,  though  they 
came  to  every  reception  and  profession  for  the  food.  If  he'd 
only  come  before  Mother  Calixta  came  for  her.  Oh,  oh! 
If  he  wasn't  in  the  carriage  with  the  bishop.  Did  he  look 
up?  How  distinguished  looking  he  was.  .  .  .  She  sighed 
deeply  and  moved  away  from  the  window.  But  she'd  see 
him  again  in  a  few  minutes.  .  .  .  One  more  look  at  her 
vows  and  she'd  be  ready. 

The  orphans,  in  their  summer  prints  and  new  blue  hair 
ribbons,  discussing  each  fresh  arrival,  curtsied  deeply  to  the 
bishop's  carriage.  Little  groups  of  priests  in  soutane,  sur- 
plice and  biretta,  round  the  sacristy  steps,  took  snuff,  dis- 
cussed the  bishop,  the  crops,  the  Misses  Curtin's  dowries 
and  the  luck  of  the  convent. 

Subdued  cries  of  "the  bishop,**  "the  bishop,"  ran  through 
the  convent.  Aprons  and  wristlets  disappeared  magically. 
Habits  were  dropped  and  trailed.  Mother  Calixta,  shepherd- 
ing Winnie  and  Kitty,  cried  frantically,  "Where's  Rev- 
erend Mother?  Where's  Reverend  Mother?"  The  cere- 
mony had  begun  before  she  was  discovered  by  two  orphans 
in  the  North  Terrace,  bent  over  a  rose  bush,  fingering  her 
beads  with  one  hand  and  trimming  off  dead  leaves  with  the 
other. 

Kneeling  on  her  prie-Dieu  in  front  of  the  Sanctuary  Kitty 
had  a  feeling  of  remoteness — as  if  she  sat  apart  and  watched 
things,  herself  included,  that  had  no  relation  to  her.  Usually 
at  Mass  and  Benediction,  although  unable  to  move  herself  to 
fervour,  she  had  a  sense  of  awe,  of  sharing  in  some  wonder- 


V  ocations  195 

ful  if  impenetrable  mystery.  To-day  the  ceremony  was 
merely  fussy,  a  number  of  unrelated  details  which  she  noted 
clearly,  but  in  which  she  had  no  concern.  She  was  indif- 
ferent even  to  the  sensuous  music,  which  for  once  did  not 
give  her  sinful  thoughts.  What  seemed  to  matter  somehow, 
but  not  to  her,  was  the  singing  out  of  tune  of  the  priests, 
their  boredom,  the  length  of  the  lace  on  Father  Burke's  sur- 
plice, the  bishop's  cough  and  the  colour  of  his  handkerchief. 
Father  Burke  was  playing  some  game  with  a  faldstool,  a 
book,  a  bougie  and  a  bishop.  It  was  important  that  he 
should  not  get  them  all  mixed  up ;  that  the  faldstool  should 
be  set  exactly  rightly  on  the  marble  step  of  the  sanctuary. 
.  .  .  Reverend  Mother  was  in  it,  too,  and  Winnie  and 
Mother  Calixta.  And  some  one  who  was  vaguely  herself, 
who  moved  when  nudged  by  Reverend  Mother,  knelt  at  the 
bishop's  feet  and  spoke  automatically  at  Reverend  Mother's 
prompting.  ...  In  one  of  the  interminable  journeys  she 
signed  a  paper  which  Mother  Michael  said  was  a  last  will 
and  testament.  Was  she  going  to  die  ?  Was  that  the  some- 
thing that  was  vaguely  impending?  But  nothing  happened. 
There  was  a  grating  sound  that  took  her  back  to  the  clip- 
ping of  the  grass  on  the  edges  of  the  garden  walk.  The 
two  heaps  of  hair  on  the  table  made  such  a  contrast.  What 
was  Winnie  crying  for  ?  The  poor  thing  looked  such  a  fright. 
What  made  her  head  like  that  ?  There  was  some  connection 
between  Winnie's  cropped  head  and  the  fair,  golden  pile  on 
the  table,  the  gold  glinting  in  the  sun,  but  she  couldn't  under- 
stand. .  .  .  They  were  dressing  her  in  black.  It  was  a 
funeral  then.  That  was  Reverend  Mother's  voice.  "It  will 
soon  be  all  over  now,  dear."  Was  she  going  to  die  ?  The 
long  marching  had  begun  again.  There  was  her  mother  with 
red  poppies  in  her  hat.  Why  was  she  crying?  The  bald 
patch  on  the  top  of  her  father's  head  looked  larger  as  he  bent 
forward  over  his  arms.  Who  was  the  bishop  talking  about 
.  .  .  Those  two  beautiful  young  virgins  who  gave  their 
whole  hearts  to  God ;  who  to-day  were  filled  to  overflowing 
with  the  joy  and  gladness  of  divine  grace;  whose  every 
thought  would  henceforth  be  God's.  Poor  man,  what  a  bad 


196  Vocations 

cold  he  had.  Where  did  the  ring  come  from?  She  stared  at 
the  silver  band  on  the  ring  finger  of  her  right  hand.  Why, 
of  course,  the  bishop  had  put  it  there.  She  remembered  now 
— her  vows  and  all.  She  must  have  been  thinking  of  some- 
thing else  at  the  time.  And  the  wonderful  feelings  the 
bishop  spoke  of?  Was  it  because  she  was  so  hungry  she 
could  experience  no  other  feeling? 

To  Winnie  the  whole  ceremony  was  enchanting.  She  was 
conscious  of  occupying  the  centre  of  the  stage,  of  the  new 
episcopal  vestments,  of  Father  Burke's  wonderful  surplice 
and  recent  hair-cut,  of  the  two  long  rows  of  priests,  of  the 
super-abundant  flowers,  of  the  visitors  at  the  back  of  the 
choir.  She  glowed  with  fervour ;  and  her  prayers  were  as 
intensive  as  her  pride.  She  had  a  momentary  feeling  of 
jealousy  that  Kitty  shared  the  stage  with  her;  but  she  soon 
forgot  this.  She  was  the  senior  and  did  everything  first. 
.  .  .  Poor  Kitty  seemed  to  be  in  a  maze.  ...  It  had  all 
turned  out  just  as  she  had  dreamt  of  it :  a  brilliant  sun,  and 
Father  Burke  as  good  as  professing  her.  And  eleven  priests 
more  than  at  Finbar's  profession — and  that  was  the  highest 
number  up  to  now.  Father  Bernardine,  too.  Very  likely  he 
came  because  of  Kitty — but  there  he  was,  anyhow.  .  .  . 
She  had  only  one  breakdown.  She  sobbed  hysterically  when 
her  hair  was  being  cut  off.  But  the  thought  of  the  depth  of 
her  sacrifice  soon  consoled  her.  She  even  wished  that  she 
could  walk  up  the  chapel  with  bared  head  so  that  people 
might  know  what  she  had  given  up.  For,  of  course,  with  the 
veil,  people  wouldn't  realize  it.  Age  quod  agis.  Some  nov- 
ices lost  their  heads  over  profession,  but  her  motto  sup- 
ported her.  She  needed  no  help  from  Mother  Calixta,  and 
gave  all  the  responses  with  feeling  and  conviction.  It  was  a 
slight  disappointment  that  it  was  the  bishop  who  put  the 
ring  on  her  finger,  but  by  closing  her  eyes  she  was  able  to 
imagine  that  it  was  Father  Burke.  And  once  when  his 
fingers  touched  the  back  of  her  hand,  her  happiness  was 
complete.  The  sermon  moved  her  to  tears  of  joy.  It  was 
so  beautiful.  And  so  true.  Her  heart  was  all  God's.  His 
and  Father  James's,  for  was  he  not  a  priest  of  God.  .  .  . 


V  ocations  197 

She  kissed  the  nuns  with  rapture  at  the  end  of  the  cere- 
mony, as  if  congratulating  them  on  her  own  happiness.  A  fat 
priest  said  with  a  snigger,  "I  wish  we  could  have  a  share." 
She  laughed  happily.  Poor  Father  Burke  would  have  to 
wait  for  his  share  till  evening,  unless  .  .  .  but  it  was  diffi- 
cult with  so  many  people  about.  An  excited  orphan  cried 
out,  "Isn't  Miss  Winnie — Sister  Winifred  I  mean — looking 
a  duck."  Winnie  wanted  to  kiss  all  the  orphans — they  were 
such  dears.  But  Reverend  Mother  said  sharply  to  her  and 
Kitty,  "Run  away  now  and  have  some  food,  children." 

Outside  the  door  giving  on  the  corridor,  Mrs.  Curtin  held 
out  her  arms.  Winnie  noticed  the  poppies  with  a  pang,  but 
magnanimously  forgave  them.  "Oh,  mother,  I'm  so  happy, 
so  happy,"  she  cooed,  returning  her  mother's  kisses  again 
and  again.  It  was  so  beautiful  to  be  crushed  in  somebody's 
arms  after  the  nuns'  pecking. 

"My  cup  is  full — I'm  that  happy,"  Mrs.  Curtin  said  tear- 
fully, disentangling  herself.  "There  now.  That's  enough. 
I  must  kiss  Kitty.  You're  like  a  saint  in  a  picture,"  she  con- 
tinued, throwing  her  arms  round  Kitty,  and  pressing  her  to 
her  breast.  "  Tis  you  were  the  born  nun  I  always  said." 

Kitty,  clung,  trembling,  to  the  warmth  and  softness.  It 
was  as  if  the  ice  that  congealed  her  had  suddenly  thawed ;  as 
if  she  had  been  kissed  back  to  life.  ...  All  she  wanted  now 
to  make  her  happy  was  to  go  home  with  her  mother  and  feel 
her  arms  always  round  her.  .  .  .  "Oh,  mother,  mother,"  she 
cried  brokenly. 

Mrs.  Curtin  held  her  at  an  arm's  length  and  looked  from 
her  to  Winnie  admiringly.  "It's  not  every  mother  has  two 
such  holy  nuns  to  her  credit,"  she  said,  with  a  complacent 
sigh. 

Winnie  simpered. 

The  little  colour  that  had  come  on  Kitty's  cheeks  left  them 
again.  The  convent  had  closed  in  on  her  like  a  tomb.  The 
nuns  moving  silently  up  and  down  the  corridor,  made  her 
shiver.  She  looked  at  her  black  veil  half  resentfully,  half 
apprehensively.  That  mystery  in  the  chapel  had  made  her 
one  of  them.  Was  it  all  a  dream?  She  tried  to  remember, 


198  Vocations 

to  picture  the  scene,  but  it  was  all  a  confused  blur.  Yet, 
there  were  her  black  veil  and  her  ring;  and  her  vows  that 
she  could  neither  see  nor  feel,  nor  even  remember.  .  .  . 

"I  wish  it  was  ten  pounds  of  marrons  glaces  instead  of 
seven,"  Winnie  said  pettishly. 

"There's  a  stone  of  the  best  chocolates,"  said  Mrs.  Curtin. 

"For  shame,  Mrs.  Curtin,"  Mother  Michael  broke  in,  bust- 
ling forward  and  shaking  a  finger  in  mock  indignation. 
"Still  keeping  these  poor  children  from  their  meal.  Sister 
Catherine  is  looking  half  starved.  And  his  lordship  has  been 
enquiring  for  you.  He'll  be  in  a  temper  if  he  has  to  wait 
for  his  food  any  longer.  Kitty  and  Winnie  can  come  in  the 
moment  they've  eaten  something." 

"Eating  alongside  the  bishop'll  give  me  a  cold  fit.  Let  ye 
be  quick,  girls,  and  distract  his  attention  from  me,"  Mrs. 
Curtin  urged. 

Winnie  rushed  off  towards  the  refectory.  Kitty  followed 
with  dragging  steps.  The  long  corridor,  with  its  north  light, 
was  cold  and  menacing.  It  was  like  a  prison ;  and  the  north 
terrace,  still  in  deep  shadow,  was  the  exercise  yard.  Sister 
Thomasine,  pacing  up  and  down,  her  head  bent  saying  her 
rosary,  was  one  of  the  prisoners.  Sister  Thomasine  was 
nearly  seventy.  .  .  .  Fifty  years  more.  .  .  .  And  beyond 
the  shadow  was  the  sunlight,  freedom.  .  .  .  The  loud  voices 
and  the  laughter  from  the  reception-room  hurt  her.  It  was 
like  eating  and  joking  at  a  wake. 

"Don't  you  feel  a  new  woman — something  holy,  divine?" 
Mother  Calixta  said,  brushing  past.  "I  mustn't  delay  a 
moment.  The  bishop!  you  know." 

Kitty  staggered  as  if  from  a  blow.     That  was  just  it. 

She  felt  a  woman — for  the  first  time  in  three  years.  .   .  . 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  Sister  Basil  waylaid  her. 

"They've  stolen  your  soul.  They  hid  mine  in  a  well  and 
put  lead  over  it.  Deep,  deep,  deep  down,"  she  said  wildly, 
her  eyes  like  smouldering  fires  in  her  haggard  face. 

Her  look  of  terror  made  Kitty's  blood  run  cold.  For  a 
horrid  moment  she  saw  herself  with  these  wild  eyes,  this 


Vocations  199 

accent  of  despair.  Was  this  the  end  of  a  woman  in  a  con- 
vent? 

"A  spider!"  she  said  unconsciously,  with  dry  lips. 

The  wild  mad  look  changed  to  one  of  hunted  fear.  Sister 
Basil  peered  round  furtively.  "The  devil !"  she  said,  in  a 
hoarse,  frightened  whisper.  "But  I  know  a  place  where  he'll 
never  find  me — under  my  bed,"  she  added  exultantly,  as  she 
scuttled  up  the  stairs. 

Kitty  bit  her  lip  with  vexation.  She  had  resolved  never  to 
use  the  noviceship  trick  of  getting  rid  of  Basil.  She  didn't 
mean  to.  But,  for  the  first  time,  Basil  had  made  her  afraid. 
Afraid  of  what?  .  .  .  And  Sister  Damien  was  half  mad 
.  .  .  and  some  of  the  others  had  all  sorts  of  hallucinations. 
She  pulled  herself  together  and  tried  to  avoid  Sister  Anne, 
but  Sister  Anne  wouldn't  be  avoided. 

She  caught  Kitty  by  the  side  of  her  veil  and  said 
effusively : 

"Rapt  up  into  the  seventh  heaven,  dear !  I  know.  I  was 
myself  on  that  blessed  day.  I've  only  time  for  one  word. 
His  lordship  has  asked  for  me  specially — his  nephew  married 
my  sister-in-law's  second  cousin,  you  know.  It's  just  this; 
and  you'll  thank  me  for  it  all  your  life."  She  lowered  her 
voice  to  a  confidential  whisper.  "You're  one  of  us  now,  and 
I  can  unseal  my  lips.  Have  nothing  to  do  with  Eulalie  and 
her  set — they're  cats.  Cats,  that's  what  they  are.  Cats. 
I'll  tell  you  lots  more  another  time.  Only  a  word  now  to 
the  wise  !  Hurry  in  or  the  tea  will  be  cold.  I  said  to  Angelica : 
Catherine  will  be  one  of  us.  She  has  gravity  and  the  grace 
of  God.  If  you  don't  be  quick  you'll  miss  a  lot  of  the  fun 
in  the  reception-room.  Try  and  sit  near  Father  Flaherty. 
He'd  make  a  cat  laugh  about  the  bishop.  I'll  say  a  rosary 
for  you  when  the  visitors  have  gone.  Prayer,  my  child,  is 
the  light  of  the  soul.  I  hadn't  a  chance  yet  to  warn  Wini- 
fred about  Eulalie,  but  I  will.  I  never  shirk  an  act  of 
charity." 

"I'm  dropping  with  hunger,"  Kitty  said,  with  a  smile. 
She  broke  away  from  Sister  Anne.  Food  was  what  she 


200  Vocations 

wanted.  She'd  put  away  all  morbid  thoughts.  She  could  be 
gay  and  she  would. 

She  ate  heartily  and  withstood  all  Winnie's  entreaties  to 
"hurry  or  the  bishop  would  be  mad."  It  was  only  when 
Mother  Calixta  rushed  in  and  said  in  a  tone  of  agony,  "Still 
eating,  and  the  bishop  has  asked  for  you  both  three  times," 
that  Kitty  put  away  her  napkin. 

"Look  pleasant,  Catherine,"  Mother  Calixta  said  anxious- 
ly, at  the  reception-room  door.  "His  lordship  likes  us  all  to 
smile.  It  shows  we're  happy,  he  says." 

"The  newly  professed,  my  lord,"  she  said,  with  smiling 
timidity  into  the  bishop's  right  ear. 

He  swallowed  a  mouthful  of  roast  chicken,  turned  half 
round  in  his  chair,  smiled  at  Winnie,  gave  her  his  ring  to 
kiss,  blessed  her,  and  said  perfunctorily: 

"Happy,  my  child?    Sister  Winifred,  isn't  it?" 

Mother  Calixta  plucked  Winnie  out  of  the  way  as  the 
bishop  held  out  his  hand  to  Kitty,  with  an  "Ah!"  which 
showed  that  beauty  could  appeal  even  to  a  bishop.  He 
shook  her  hand  warmly,  and  patted  her  shoulder  with  his 
left  hand  while  he  gave  her  a  blessing  with  his  right. 

"You've  every  reason  to  be  proud  of  your  daughters,  Mrs. 
Curtin,"  he  said,  still  smiling  at  Kitty. 

"God  is  very  good  to  me,  my  lord,"  Mrs.  Curtin  replied 
with  fervour. 

"He  has  every  right  to  be  with  the  gifts  you  give  Him, 
ma'am,"  the  bishop  said,  with  an  approving  look  at  Kitty. 
"Get  a  chair  for  Sister  Catherine  here  between  Reverend 
Mother  and  myself,  Mother  Calixta.  You'd  like  to  have  a 
word  with  your  mother,"  he  added,  waving  Winnie  away, 
with  a  smile. 

Winnie  retired  crestfallen.  It  wasn't  fair,  and  she  the 
eldest!  She  always  knew  he  was  a  horrid  old  man.  He 
hadn't  even  given  her  time  to  say  how  happy  she  was.  And 
she  had  intended  to  make  him  laugh,  too,  by  being  daringly 
original  and  replying,  "I  am  as  happy  as  a  bishop,  my  lord." 
And  now  it  would  never  be  said.  .  .  .  She  had  a  gloomy 
vision  of  Kitty  being  offered  the  first  place  all  through  their 


Vocations  201 

life  in  the  convent.     Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.    .    .    . 

"The  other  guests  are  waiting  to  congratulate  you,  dear," 
Reverend  Mother  said,  patting  her  hand. 

Winnie  blushed  prettily.  Her  spirits  revived.  She  gave  a 
rapid  glance  round  the  table.  She  had  been  so  absorbed  in 
the  bishop  that  she  had  not  noticed  the  pause  in  the  conver- 
sation and  in  the  clatter  of  knives  and  works.  All  eyes  were 
fixed  on  her.  She  felt  a  deep  pride.  Should  she  speak  first 
to  Mrs.  Thornton  on  the  left  of  the  bishop,  or  to  Father 
Bernardine  just  beyond  her  mother?  Where  was  Father 
James?  Oh!  How  could  she  get  to  him  first  and  he  half- 
way down  the  long  table  ?  Her  father  smiled  at  her  sheep- 
ishly from  behind  Father  Burke.  She  made  a  dart  forward 
and  almost  upset  Sister  Francis  and  a  dish  of  cream  tarts. 
...  It  was  the  becoming  thing  to  greet  her  father  first.  It 
would  be  thrilling  to  kiss  him  before  all  the  table ;  and 
Father  James  would  know  why.  Oh !  if  only  she  could ! 
But  she'd  give  her  father  two  extra  kisses  for  him.  .  .  . 

While  Tom  Curtin  was  awkwardly  putting  away  his  nap- 
kin and  pushing  back  his  chair,  Father  Burke  was  on  his 
feet.  She  held  out  her  hand  impulsively.  Whq  didn't  he 
press  it  more  ?  He  was  so  cold  and  reserved  in  public.  And 
there  was  something  worried  and  distant  in  his  look.  Father 
Flaherty's  chuckling  remark,  "Burke  is  in  luck,"  gave  her  a 
thrill  of  pleasure.  Oh,  why  couldn't  she?  Even  one?  She 
threw  herself  desperately  into  her  father's  arms  and  clung 
to  him.  "Oh,  father,  I'm  so  happy,  so  happy,"  she  muttered, 
kissing  him  passionately. 

"There  now.  That'll  do — that'll  do,"  Tom  Curtin  said 
nervously,  half  pleased  and  half  ashamed  of  the  unac- 
customed display  of  affection. 

"Don't  waste  'em  all  on  your  father,"  Father  Flaherty 
said  hilariously. 

She  smiled  through  her  tears.  Father  Flaherty  was  al- 
ways so  pleasant.  And  not  one  in  the  whole  room  knew 
whom  she  had  been  kissing  all  the  time.  .  .  . 

"I've  seldom  had  the  privilege  of  professing  two  more 
promising  nuns,"  the  bishop  said,  smacking  his  lips.  "I  wish 


202  Vocations 

I  could  get  as  good  champagne  as  that  at  the  Palace,  Mrs. 
Curtin." 

"I'll  see  that  you  will,  my  lord,"  Mrs.  Curtin  said  heartily. 

"You  are  much  too  generous  to  us  all — much  too  gener- 
ous, ma'am.  It's  dry  without  being  too  dry.  I  noticed 
their  demeanour  all  through  the  ceremony.  Different,  of 
course,  but  with  qualities  in  each  that  make  for  perfection. 
Sister  Winifred's  nice  attention  to  detail.  Every  word  and 
bow  was  important  and  perfect.  A  veritable  Martha.  And 
Sister  Catherine's  absorption  in  the  ceremony  as  a  whole. 
She  reminded  me  not  a  little  of  her  great  patron  saint,  St. 
Catherine  of  Siena  .  .  .  the  same  rapt  devotion,  as  if  she 
were  treading  the  mystic  way.  Another  Mary.  Yes,  Mother 
Calixta,  I  think  I  will  take  another  glass  in  honour  of 
their  good  parents." 

"The  lord  has  a  good  eye  for  likely  fillies,"  Father 
Flaherty  said,  with  a  wink  at  Father  Burke. 

Winnie  tossed  her  head  and  barely  acknowledged  Father 
Brady's  gruff  congratulations.  She  a  Martha,  indeed !  How 
little  the  bishop  knew.  Poor  Kitty  with  all  her  scrupulosity 
about  rules  and  things,  was  one  of  the  worst  Marthas  in 
the  house.  .  .  . 

"I  suppose  the  champagne  will  come  this  way  ultimately," 
the  eldest  Miss  Purcell  whispered  to  her  sister. 

"Why,  of  course.  Rich  publicans,  my  dear.  I've  never 
enjoyed  a  profession  more  ...  the  chicken  in  aspic  .  .  . 
simply  perfection." 

"I  daren't,"  Miss  Purcell  said,  with  a  sigh  of  regret. 
"Nothing  else  solid." 

"I  can  manage  several  dishes  yet.  Remember,  I  warned 
you  to  go  without  breakfast,  Eleanor,"  her  sister  said 
severely. 

"Nothing  is  more  gratifying  than  the  growth  of  voca- 
tions," the  bishop  said  loudly,  for  the  benefit  of  the  table, 
hesitating  over  an  embarrrassing  choice  of  sweets.  "I 
think  a  few  meringues  first,  Mother  Calixta,  and  perhaps 
that  wobbling  thing  after.  There's  no  better  proof  of  the 
strength  of  the  religious  spirit.  Young  girls  surrounded  by 


V  ocations  203 

every  luxury  turn  their  backs  on  all  the  glittering  allure- 
ments of  the  world  and  willingly  accept  poverty  and  the 
other  hard  abnegations  of  convent  life.  I  wish  I  had  your 
cook,  Mother  Calixta.  Yes,  two  more." 

"They  say  the  young  Curtins  were  bored  to  death.  One 
might  have  asked  them  to  tea,  perhaps,  if  it  weren't  for  the 
shop,"  Miss  Purcell  whispered. 

"The  dispositions  of  Providence,  dear,"  the  younger  sister 
murmured.  "And  as  they  were  educated  above  their  sta- 
tion the  convent  is  a  nice  refuge.  This  trifle  is  excellent. 
I  wish  the  dear  nuns  would  share  some  of  their  poverty 
with  us.  They  must  be  rolling." 

Kitty  sat  rigidly  in  her  chair,  her  hands  clasped  within 
the  folds  of  her  veil.  She  wanted  so  much  to  laugh,  but 
she  was  afraid  of  crying.  Light  replies  to  the  bishop's 
compliments  died  on  her  lips,  and  she  answered  in  stiff 
monosyllables.  Fortunately  he  was  more  interested  in  his 
food,  and  soon  forgot  her.  It  was  all  so  comic.  The  tragedy 
in  the  chapel,  and  then  this.  It  was  like  the  farce  that  fol- 
lowed Handet  in  the  Theatre  Royal  when  she  went  once 
with  Bessie  Sweetman.  The  face  of  the  dead  Ophelia  had 
been  behind  every  jest.  .  .  .  But  if  she  laughed  now  it 
would  be  in  that  dreadful  hysteria  of  Sister  Lawrence.  It 
was  horrible  but  intensely  funny:  the  bishop  discussing 
spirituality  between  huge  mouthfuls  of  food  and  long 
draughts  of  wine;  priests  gulping  down  food  as  if  they 
hadn't  eaten  for  a  week ;  her  mother,  her  face  almost  rival- 
ling the  poppies  in  her  hat,  flushed  with  contented  pride, 
narrating  volubly  to  Father  Bernardine  the  decisive  signs 
of  her  children's  vocations  from  childhood ;  Mrs.  Thorn- 
ton blending  a  respectful  deference  to  the  bishop  with  a 
scarcely  veiled  contempt  for  the  rest  of  the  company ;  Stella 
Finnegan  divided  between  imitation  of  Miss  Thornton's 
boredom  and  enjoyment  of  Father  Flaherty's  coarse  jests; 
nuns  flushed  from  the  hard  labour  of  cramming  sixty  violent 
appetites ;  nuns  brooding  over  their  favourite  priests  with 
the  watchful  anxiety  of  hens  who  had  each  the  care  of  a 
single  chicken ;  the  Miss  Purcells  heedless  of  everything  but 


204  V  ocations 

their  food;  the  Rafters,  the  Devines  and  the  Muldoons 
torn  between  the  pride  of  lunching  with  the  bishop  and 
jealousy  of  the  Curtin  display;  her  father  making  a  desper- 
ate effort  to  look  as  if  he  enjoyed  himself,  and  all  the  time 
longing  to  be  at  home  behind  the  counter;  Father  Brady 
making  no  effort  to  conceal  his  contempt;  Father  Burke, 
looking  worried ;  Father  Dunne,  bored  but  tolerant ;  Mother 
Calixta  hanging  on  the  bishop's  plate  and  glass,  and  Rev- 
erend Mother,  half  hidden  behind  the  bishop's  chair,  gaz- 
ing absentmindedly  at  the  floor,  isolated  in  mind  as  in  body, 
her  ringers  moving  with  steady  regularity  from  bead  to 
bead  as  her  lips  completed  a  prayer.  .  .  .  Reverend  Mother 
could  get  outside  all  this  horror  and  confusion,  but  then, 
Reverend  Mother  had  the  gift  of  prayer.  Kitty  sighed 
dismally.  She  could  neither  be  of  it  nor  get  away  from 
it.  Her  vows  had  done  her  no  good.  She  had  the  same 
empty  feeling  she  had  had  every  day  since  she  entered  the 
convent.  Yet  she  couldn't  detach  herself  from  anything. 
Even  this  luncheon  which  disgusted  her,  interested  her.  She 
couldn't  philander  with  priests,  but  it  wasn't  entirely  be- 
cause she  was  afraid  of  herself.  One  had  to  play  the  game. 
And  she  had  all  sorts  of  repugnances.  But  behind  was  an 
intense  curiosity.  Sometimes,  when  off  her  guard,  she  had 
wished  that  priests  would  hold  her  hand.  Yet  when  they 
tried  to  do  so  she  couldn't.  It  might  be  that  God  or  her 
guardian  angel  came  to  her  help.  But  why,  when  she 
imagined  things,  did  God  leave  her  to  fight  almost  alone? 
Then  her  desire  knew  no  limits.  She  was  pushed  to  the 
edge  of  the  precipice  with  a  violence  that  she  could  not 
withstand  and  only  saved  herself  on  the  brink  of  a  super- 
human effort.  Had  she  always  saved  herself?  Father 
Bernardine  said  she  had.  She  didn't  know.  Father  Brady 
said  nuns  and  priests  were  sending  him  to  an  early  grave; 
and  gave  her  penances  as  if  he  believed  that  she  had  fallen. 
She  couldn't  have.  She  came  into  the  convent  to  save  her- 
self from  sin,  and  God  couldn't  desert  her.  He  gave  her 
no  comfort,  and  much  pain;  but  He  had  saved  her  from 
herself.  He  must  have.  .  .  .  Yet  why  did  she  feel 


V  ocations  205 

this  sudden  antipathy  to  the  convent  ...  to  all  nuns? 

"You  ought  to  become  a  nun,  Miss  Thornton,"  the  bishop 
said,  wiping  his  mouth  with  his  napkin.  "See  how  happy 
and  contented  Sister  Catherine  here  is." 

"How  d'ye  do.  No,  thanks,"  Miss  Thornton  said,  with  a 
nod  to  Kitty,  and  an  insolent  toss  of  her  head.  "I  know 
too  much  about  them." 

"Hear  that  now,  Reverend  Mother,"  the  bishop  said 
jocosely  over  his  shoulder. 

"You're  not  thinking  of  going,  my  lord?"  Reverend 
Mother,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  rose  hurriedly  from  her  cnalr. 

"God  bless  me,  no,"  the  bishop  said,  with  an  anxious  look 
at  his  glass.  "Not  even  in  a  convent  where  the  Reverend 
Mother  is  always  praying?"  he  added,  with  a  wink  at  Miss 
Thornton. 

"One  gets  more  out  of  sin  in  the  world,"  she  retorted 
flippantly. 

"Selina!"  Mrs.  Thornton  said  severely. 

The  bishop  stretched  himself  back  in  his  chair,  his  eyes 
twinkling. 

"Come  now,  Miss  Selina " 

"If  you've  done  with  Kitty,  my  lord,  she  might,  with  your 
lordship's  leave,  be  going  round  and  bidding  the  time  of 
day  to  the  rest  of  the  company,"  Mrs.  Curtin  interrupted 
deferentially.  "Winnie  has  near  finished  her  round." 

"Of  course,  of  course.  God  bless  you,  my  child.  May 
the  peace  and  happiness  you  enjoy  to-day  abide  with  you 
for  ever.  I  think  I'll  try  a  peach,  Mother  Calixta.  It's  sel- 
dom I  get  them  so  early.  And  give  one  to  Miss  Selina." 

"Here's  Father  Bernardine  dying  to  have  a  word  with 
you,"  Mrs.  Curtin  whispered,  giving  Kitty  a  nudge. 

Kitty  got  up  reluctantly  and  curtseyed  to  the  shoulder  of 
the  bishop,  who  was  again  fencing  jovially  with  Miss  Thorn- 
ton. Winnie,  flushed  and  triumphant,  was  talking  to  Stella 
Finnegan.  Winnie  liked  the  fun  and  excitement,  Kitty 
thought  enviously.  If  only  she  had  Winnie's  spirits  or  Selina 
Thornton's  calm  indifference.  Her  nerves  were  so  strung 
that  another  turn  of  the  screw  would  make  them  snap.  Yet 


206  Vocations 

she  must  try  and  talk  to  all  these  people  who  would  con- 
gratulate her  on  her  happiness.  She  stood  behind  her 
mother  and  glanced  down  the  long  table  with  a  half-fright- 
ened, half-hostile  look.  Why  was  Father  Duffy  of  Derry- 
donnelly  staring  at  her  with  those  calf's  eyes?  Father 
Brady  wasn't  approving  her.  And  who  was  the  man  be- 
yond Father  Dunne?  Sister  Anne  with  all  her  talk  of 
gravity  was  evidently  enjoying  Father  Flaherty.  .  .  . 

Her  eyes  came  back  to  the  man  beyond  Father  Dunne. 
How  was  it  she  hadn't  noticed  him  before?  He  stood  out 
from  the  others  somehow.  It  was  as  if  he  were  outside  it, 
too.  There  was  irony  and  tolerance  in  his  smile.  His  eyes 
caught  hers  for  a  moment,  and  she  held  her  breath.  .  .  . 
They  seemed  to  see  through  her.  .  .  . 

She  looked  hastily  at  her  father,  who  was  regarding  her 
with  a  moody  frown.  She  smiled  at  him,  but  he  frowned 
more  deeply  and  turned  away  to  talk  to  Father  Burke. 

What  was  that  sudden  change  in  the  strange  man's  eyes 
just  as  he  had  looked  at  her?  The  irony  was  still  on  his 
lips,  but  there  was  something  else.  It  was  only  a  flash  as 
he  withdrew  his  eyes.  It  was  as  if  he  understood  and  pitied 
her.  Who  was  he?  He  didn't  even  know  her,  she  thought, 
with  a  resentment  that  quickened  her  interest.  She  stole 
another  glance  at  him.  He  was  listening  to  Father  Dunne 
with  the  same  half-ironic  smile.  He  couldn't  be  from  the 
town  with  those  clothes  and  his  quiet  tie  ...  and  clean- 
shaven. His  eyes  must  be  very  dark.  Even  Bessie  Sweet- 
man,  who  was  hard  to  please,  would  say  he  was  good- 
looking. 

"I  think  I  have  seen  everyone  before  except  the  man  be- 
yond Father  Dunne,"  she  said  to  her  mother. 

"Oh,  him?"  Mrs.  Curtin  said  indifferently.  "That's 
the  new  organist.  He's  very  select,  they  say.  The  whole 
town  is  running  after  him,  but  he  keeps  himself  to  himself." 

"In  a  moment,  Mrs.  Rafter.  I  must  speak  to  Sister 
Catherine  now."  Father  Bernardine  broke  off  Mrs.  Raft- 
er's voluble  confidences.  "This  is  a  happy  day,"  he  added, 
jumping  up  and  clasping  Kitty's  hand.  "A  poor  Colmanite 


Vocations  207 

is  thrown  into  the  shade  by  his  lordship.  I  feared  you  had 
entirely  forgotten  your  old  friends." 

The  complacent  smile  jarred  on  her.  It  was  so  different 
from  the  other  man's.  She  had  heard  of  him,  of  course. 
What  was  his  name?  Lynch — George  Lynch. 

"She's  not  likely  to  forget  you,  Father,  and  you  put- 
ting her  in  and  all,"  Mrs.  Curtin  said  warmly. 

"A  most  edifying  ceremony.  Your  quiet,  undemonstra- 
tive happiness  was  very  grateful  to  me.  It  was  a  more  than 
sufficient  reward  for  my  small  share  in  determining  your 
vocation,"  Father  Bernardine  murmured,  patting  her  hand. 

She  felt  suddenly  hard  and  bitter.  They  were  all  so 
foolish.  That  stranger  knew  more  about  her  than  the  whole 
of  them  put  together.  And  she  had  thought  that  Father 
Bernardine  knew  things.  .  .  .  She  had  followed  his  advice 
for  three  years,  yet  he  thought  her  happy  now.  Why  didn't 
he  do  his  hair  like  Mr.  Lynch?  Why  hadn't  she  before 
looked  more  closely  at  his  mouth  and  at  the  curls  trained 
across  his  forehead?  He  couldn't  really  know.  It  was  his 
voice  and  his  belief  in  himself  that  hid  all  this  shallowness 
from  her  ...  or  was  it  some  other  glamour?  It  was  a 
weak  face,  not  strong  like  the  other  man's. 

"The  best  of  good  luck  to  you,  Sister  Catherine,  though 
you  look  peaked  itself,"  Mrs.  Rafter  broke  in  cordially. 
"Though  we've  lived  in  the  one  town  all  our  lives  we've 
never  passed  a  word  before.  Not  that  I  bear  any  malice," 
she  added,  with  a  hostile  look  at  Mrs.  Curtin.  "Well,  well, 
if  a  girl  has  to  be  a  nun  there  are  worse  places  than  Drum- 
bawn.  I  had  a  notion  that  way  myself  once,  and,  now,  thank 
God,  I'm  the  mother  of  ten." 

"Your  father  is  looking  as  black  as  thunder,"  Mrs. 
Curtin  said  hastily.  "Run  down,  Kitty,  and  lighten  him 
up  a  bit." 

They  were  all  little  tops  spinning  round  and  round  and 
interested  only  in  themselves.  ...  If  she  had  made  a  mis- 
take it  was  her  own  fault  .  .  .  not  her  mother's,  nor  Father 
Bernardine's.  She  must  smile.  She  smiled  and  murmured 
incoherent  thanks  to  half  a  dozen  people  in  succession. 


208  Vocations 

"I  hope  you're  feeling  happy,"  her  father  said,  with  a 
look  that  gave  the  lie  to  any  such  hope. 

"It's  not  my  funeral,"  she  laughed,  as  she  kissed  him. 

"They've  tied  you  up  now.  You'll  feel  that,"  he  said 
gloomily. 

She  winced.  But  she  wasn't  going  to  think  of  that  any 
more — to-day,  anyhow.  It  must  be  her  father  made  her 
feel  more  cheerful. 

"I'm  just  as  I  always  was,"  she  said. 

"Then  God  help  you." 

"Old  crusty  ;£ace!"  she  retorted.  "I'm  going  to  be 
happy." 

"That's  the  proper  spirit,  Sister  Catherine.  We  mustn't 
leave  happiness  altogether  to  people  in  the  world.  We 
religious  must  have  our  share.  My  warmest  congratula- 
tions," Father  Burke  said,  in  a  cooing  voice. 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  but  she  was  looking  beyond  him. 
.  .  .  Would  Mr.  Lynch  speak  to  her  like  the  others,  with- 
out introduction,  or  would  Father  Dunne  introduce  him? 

"Nothing  but  changes  in  the  town.  Here's  Father  Burke 
telling  me  he's  as  good  as  offered  Lissakelly  parish.  He's 
between  two  minds  whether  he'll  take  it  or  not,"  her  father 
grumbled. 

"It's  a  horrid,  gloomy  old  town,"  she  said  regretfully. 
But  the  regret  was  that  her  duties  did  not  take  her  to  the 
parish  church.  She'd  like  to  hear  Mr.  Lynch  play.  She 
was  sure  he  could  play  well.  His  eyes  were  brown.  Dr. 
Thornton  was  good-looking,  but  nothing  to  ... 

"You'd  like  me  to  stay?"  Father  Burke  said,  in  his  lisp, 
with  a  languishing  look. 

She  smiled  at  him.  Her  father  was  wrong  to  regret 

change.  A  good  organist  would  make  What  was  it 

Father  Burke  had  asked  her?  He'd  probably  repeat  it. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  said. 

Father  Burke  sighed  contentedly.  She  felt  her  old  re- 
pugnance revive.  Why  did  he  smile  in  that  abominable 
self-satisfied  way  .  .  .  with  that  leer  that  seemed  to  smirch 
her? 


Vocations  209 

"There  are  the  cakes  still  to  cut.  I'll  never  be  round  the 
table  in  time,"  she  said.  "Cheer  up,  papa.  Everything 
will  come  right." 

Nothing  seemed  to  hurt  her  now,  not  even  Father  Burke's 
horrid  look.  And  she  could  think  of  Dr.  Thornton  as  if  he 
were  merely  anyone.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  was  her  vows,  after 
all? 

The  Miss  Purcells,  who  were  busy  eating — the  elder  had 
decided  that  she  could  make  room  for  a  peach — took  no 
notice  of  Kitty.  Father  Dunne  smiled  satirically  and  gave 
her  a  lazy  greeting. 

"Well,  you've  gone  and  done  it,  Miss  Kitty.  Why  you 
did  it  beats  me.  I  suppose  there's  a  streak  of  madness  in  us 
all." 

"Does  it  matter  what  a  woman  does  with  herself?"  she 
laughed.  She  was  conscious  of  the  man  standing  up  beside 
Father  Dunne  and  of  the  warmth  of  her  cheeks. 

"That's  true.  Still,  I  thought  you  had  more  regard  for 
yourself." 

"He  thinks  very  badly  of  us  poor  nuns,"  she  said,  with  a 
smile  at  his  companion.  The  answering  smile  pleased  her. 
It  said  without  words,  "We  both  know  Father  Dunne."  He 
understood  her. 

"You  go  to  the  wrong  quarter  if  you  think  Lynch  admires 
nuns.  He  can't  abide  them.  But  you  don't  know  him  ?  Mr. 
Lynch,  the  new  organist.  He  has  been  taking  your  measure 
all  day.  Sister  Catherine,  is  it  they  call  you?" 

Again  his  smile  answered  her  that  she  was  right  in  think- 
ing that  Father  Dunne  was  talking  nonsense.  .  .  .  There 
was  something  clean  and  invigorating  in  the  touch  of  the 
firm,  cool  hand. 

"I  heard  you  sing  at  Benediction  on  Sunday  evening.  I 
wish  you  were  one  of  the  nuns  who  sing  for  us,"  he  said 
quietly. 

She  knew  his  voice  would  have  that  timbre.  It  was  just 
right,  like  his  tie  and  the  way  he  held  himself ;  and  the  lean 
brown  face  was  so  striking  under  his  dark  hair. 

"Good  Lord !    And  he's  always  saying  that  women  ought 


210  Vocations 

never  to  sing  in  a  church.  He's  all  for  Palestrina  and 
Orlando  di  Lasso  and  boys'  voices  and  all  that.  Women 
only  pipe  out  their  own  little  squashy  hearts,  he  says," 
Father  Dunne  jibed. 

She  liked  him  for  making  no  attempt  at  contradiction  or 
extenuation.  He  merely  looked  at  her  with  the  ironic  smile 
on  his  lips. 

"I  know,"  she  agreed.  "Often  at  Mass  I've  only  to  shut 
my  eyes  and  I  seem  to  be  in  a  theatre.  If  they  sang  the 
right  kind  of  music  it  might  be  different?"  she  added 
vaguely. 

His  eyes  had  lighted  up  and  the  ironic  smile  was  gone. 

"There's  a  convent  in  Paris  where  they  do  it  astonish- 
ingly well.  The  nuns'  voices  are  like  the  wraiths  of  dead 
women.  Life  seems  to  have  been  drained  out  of  them.  It's 
beautiful,  but  too  horrible." 

"There's  little  fear  of  that  in  Drumbawn.  They're  a 
strapping  lot  of  women,"  Father  Dunne  said,  with  a  yawn. 
"These  convent  lunches  upset  me.  They're  too  early  to  have 
a  decent  appetite  for  'em,  and  too  late  to  let  a  man  enjoy 
his  dinner  in  comfort  after." 

"It's  dreadful,  dreadful,"  Lynch  said,  continuing  his  own 
thought.  "No,  no,  anything  but  that."  He  was  looking  at 
her  again  with  pity  in  his  eyes. 

"I'd  like  to  sing  in  the  church,"  she  said  simply. 

"I  give  you  up,  Lynch,"  Father  Dunne  said,  with  a  shrug 
of  contempt.  "You're  quite  as  bad  as  the  rest." 

"While  we  have  nuns  in  the  choir  it's  surely  best  to  have 
those  who  can  sing,"  Lynch  said,  with  a  contented  smile. 

"You'll  be  liking  them  next,"  Father  Dunne  said  in  a 
tone  of  warning  against  the  last  depth  of  idiocy. 

"No,  I  hate  them  worse  than  ever,"  Lynch  snapped. 

"Don't  bite  the  head  off  the  poor  girl.  She  hasn't  done 
you  any  harm,"  the  priest  said  gently.  "Though  I'm  glad 
you  have  that  much  sense,"  he  hastened  to  add,  as  if 
ashamed  of  his  softness. 

Kitty  laughed  gaily.  Mr.  Lynch  might  look  at  her  as 
angrily  as  he  liked,  but  she  knew  he  didn't  hate  her. 


Vocations  211 

"I'll  come  if  I  can,"  she  said,  moving  away.  She  held  his 
eyes  for  a  moment.  His  anger  had  completely  gone.  They 
were  such  wonderfully  soft  eyes,  sympathetic  and  under- 
standing ...  he  was  like  a  real  friend. 

The  guests  seemed  more  human  and  friendly.  Why 
shouldn't  they  be  happy?  She  was  happy.  She  answered 
jest  with  jest  as  she  made  the  round  of  the  table.  She 
laughed  at  Father  Brady  for  saying  she  had  made  her  bed 
and  now  would  have  to  put  up  with  it.  She  was  able  to 
assure  Stella  Finnegan  that  there  was  nothing  dreadful 
"about  it  all."  She  talked  of  Daisy  and  the  baby  with 
Selina  Thornton  as  if  the  past  had  been  entirely  blotted  out. 
Something  wonderful  had  come  over  her  .  .  .  fresh  and 
cleansing  as  the  sea  breeze  on  the  top  of  Dangan  hill.  Per- 
haps it  was  the  grace  of  her  vows  working  at  last? 

"Where  is  Winifred?"  Mother  Calixta  asked  excitedly. 
"I  told  her  to  be  ready  to  cut  the  cake  at  Father  Brady's 
end  of  the  table.  The  bishop  wants  you  at  his  end.  Run 
and  find  her.  That's  a  good  girl.  And  don't  be  late  your- 
self. His  lordship  is  getting  tired." 

Kitty  searched  the  chapel  and  the  noviceship.  She  went 
at  last  to  Winnie's  cell  and  found  her,  sobbing  on  her  bed. 

"Go  away.  Go  away.  I  don't  want  anyone.  Can't  you 
leave  me  in  peace !"  she  cried. 

"The  cakes !  The  bishop  is  waiting,"  Kitty  said  in  feeble 
astonishment. 

Winnie  sat  up  and  said  furiously :  "Everyone  is  down  on 
me.  The  bishop's  cake  is  my  cake.  I  hate  him.  Anyone 
could  see  he  was  gone  on  you.  I'll  die  before  I  cut  Father 
Brady's  cake.  Cut  them  both.  I  don't  care.  I  don't  care." 

She  burst  out  sobbing  afresh.  Kitty  tried  to  soothe  her, 
but  she  pushed  her  aside.  "I  hate  you— I  hate  everyone," 
she  added  bitterly. 

"Don't,  Winnie,  dear.  You  ought  to  be  so  happy.  .  .  . 
Your  vows  and  everything.  I'll  speak  to  Mother  Calixta. 
We'll  manage  somehow  about  the  cake." 

"It's  not  that.  It's  not  that  at  all,"  Winnie  said,  in  a 
despairing  voice. 


212  Vocations 

"What  is  it  then?"  Kitty  asked  gently. 

"Oh,  oh,  I'm  so  miserable.  I  was  never  so  miserable  in 
my  life.  I  know  by  his  look  it's  true.  It's  that  horrid 
bishop.  Mother  Michael  told  me.  The  bishop  told  the 
Mothers.  Those  dreadful  vulgar  nuns  at  Lissakelly,  too. 
They'll  be  making  up  to  him.  I  wish  I  was  dead." 

"If  you  mean  Father  Burke,  I  don't  think  he'll  go,"  Kitty 
said  impatiently.  "He's  not  worth  bothering  about,  any- 
way." 

"Who  told  you?  Who  told  you?  Did  he  tell  you  him- 
self?" Winnie  asked,  with  jealous  suspicion. 

"Papa  said  it  was  doubtful.  And  Father  Burke  doesn't 
seem  inclined  to  go,"  Kitty  said  coldly.  "It  seems  he  has  a 
choice." 

Winnie  stared  at  her  with  lips  apart.  Slowly  fear  gave 
way  to  doubt,  and  doubt  to  conviction.  She  heaved  a  deep 
sigh  of  relief  which  shook  her  body. 

"He'd  never  leave  me  unless  they  made  him.  He  won't 
go.  It  was  wicked  of  me  to  doubt  him.  That  cat,  Michael, 
wanted  to  spite  me.  I  don't  mind  about  the  cake.  I  really 
don't,  Kitty.  My  nose  will  be  a  fright.  I'm  glad  you're  to 
be  at  the  top  of  the  table.  I'll  slip  in  quietly  by  the  lower 
door.  Father  Brady  won't  notice." 

"Do  have  sense  now,  Winnie,"  Kitty  said  severely,  wiping 
off  the  marks  of  tears  with  a  towel.  "We're  sensible  nuns 
now." 

"Oh,  I'll  be  sensible.  Let  us  hurry  down.  I  must  make 
sure  there's  no  fear  of  his  going." 

"Come,  my  child,"  the  bishop  said  impatiently  as  Kitty 
entered  the  reception-room.  "We're  all  eager  to  partake  of 
this  very  excellent  cake.  Let  me  help  you  to  perform  the 
last  symbolical  rite  of  your  complete  withdrawal  from  the 
world  ...  of  your  marriage,  as  it  were,  with  God." 

"Have  they  all  gone?"  Reverend  Mother  asked,  half 
awaking  from  a  reverie. 


Chapter  14 

FATHER  BURKE  had  strayed  into  the  vow  of 
celibacy  without  giving  it  any  particular  thought. 
Priesthood  was  a  career  and  not  a  vocation.   He 
was  an  average  prudent  man  of  the  world  who 
managed  a  small  business  with  care.     He  was  a  teacher 
of  a  system  of  morality  which  he  did  not  practise.     He 
had  never  analysed  his  beliefs ;  and  could  not  have  honestly 
said  how  much,  if  at  all,  he  believed  what  he  preached.  The 
subject  did  not  interest  him.    He  had  no  embarrassing  con- 
victions.    He  studied  religion  and  morality — just  enough 
to  get  through — to  pass  examinations.    His  vow  of  celibacy 
was  merely  a  stepping-stone  to  a  living.     His  preoccupa- 
tion henceforward  was  to  make  life  as  pleasant  as  was 
compatible  with  moderate  ambitions. 

He  never  had  a  moment's  regret  that  he  had  chosen  the 
priesthood  as  a  profession.  It  flattered  his  vanity,  gave  him 
ease,  comfort  and  scope  for  the  prudent  gratification  of  his 
passions.  His  guiding  principle  was  to  reap  all  the  pleasure 
he  could  without  compromising  his  position,  or  putting  any 
obstacles  in  the  way  of  promotion  to  a  parish.  Higher  am- 
bitions were  mere  vague  velleities  which  he  pictured  in  his 
fancy;  for  which  he  hoped  but  could  not  labour,  as  they 
brought  no  immediate  reward  to  his  vanity.  But  a  parish 
meant  security,  and  could  be  reached  by  judicious  steering. 
He  took  risks,  but  they  were  what  he  called  fairly  safe  risks. 
He  looked  on  every  woman  with  the  eye  of  desire,  but  ex- 
ercised a  wise  discrimination  before  going  farther.  He  rec- 
ognized that  some  women  had  stupid  affectations  of  virtue 
which  made  them  impregnable ;  but  the  confessional  often 
gave  him  a  key  to  more  easy  virtue,  or  to  the  still  more  at- 
tractive innocence ;  and  the  freedom  of  intercourse  allowed 
to  a  priest  furnished  almost  indefinite  opportunity.  He 
213 


214  Vocations 

seldom  dropped  the  cloak  of  religion,  and  his  carefully 
graduated  series  of  affairs,  ranging  from  the  holding  of 
hands  to  adultery,  never  resulted  in  scandal. 

The  bishop  picked  him  up  in  Bridge  Street  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  profession.  He  appreciated  the  honour,  but  with 
some  slight  trepidation,  for  there  was  always  the  remote 
danger  of  something  awkward  coming  to  light.  The  bishop's 
cordial  manner,  however,  reassured  him.  He  ventured  to 
enquire  how  long  it  had  taken  his  lordship  to  drive  from  the 
palace,  at  Caltra;  and,  on  hearing  that  it  had  taken  only  an 
hour  and  a  half,  expressed  surprise  that  any  pair  of  horses 
could  do  the  journey  in  less  than  two  hours.  The  bishop 
said  severely  that  for  some  time  he  had  been  keeping  a 
close  eye  on  Father  Burke  with  a  view  to  promotion,  and 
after  careful  investigation  was  prepared  to  offer  him  the 
important  parish  of  Lissakelly.  Father  Dunne  had  a  claim 
of  seniority,  but  Father  Burke's  superior  zeal  as  Director 
of  the  Women's  Branch  of  the  Sacred  Heart  Sodality,  as  a 
preacher,  as  head  of  the  Temperance  Society,  as  part  con- 
fessor at  the  convent,  made  him  the  fitter  choice  for  such 
a  conspicuous  charge.  Father  Burke,  with  a  happy  smirk, 
muttered  something  about  his  unworthiness. 

"I  have  chosen  you,"  the  bishop  said,  with  a  note  of  in- 
fallibility. "You'll  be  careful  about^  the  convent  there. 
Women  are  weak  and  the  world  is  growing  censorious." 

"You  can  trust  me,  my  lord,"  Father  Burke  said  de- 
murely. 

He  was  elated  by  the  news,  but  had  a  little  undercurrent 
of  depression.  He  was  a  kind  man  and  felt  for  the  women 
who  would  have  to  give  him  up.  He  was  genuinely  sorry 
for  them.  He  must  break  it  to  them  gently.  He  hoped 
none  of  them  would  make  a  fuss.  He  saw  himself  ex- 
plaining to  them  that  he  was  a  soldier  who  had  to  obey 
orders — a  martyr  to  duty.  In  a  way  it  was  a  relief.  They 
had  become  so  many  that  it  was  difficult  to  keep  the  scales 
even  .  .  .  and  jealous  women  were  dangerous.  Partly  be- 
cause he  hadn't  the  heart  to  do  it,  and  partly  because  she 
might  let  things  out,  he  had  never  dropped  a  woman.  But 


Vocations  215 

this  wouldn't  be  giving  them  up.  The  knot  would,  as  it 
were,  be  cut  for  him.  He  saw  them,  consumed  by  grief, 
performing  a  sort  of  suttee.  He  hoped  his  successor  would 
be  a  prig  like  poor  old  Brady  or  Dunne,  who  didn't  know 
how  to  get  the  best  out  of  life.  There  was  no  one  in  the 
town  who  could  step  into  his  shoes.  Hopkins,  the  Do- 
minican, would  try  to  make  an  innings,  but  wasn't  formid- 
able. It  would  be  nice  to  think  that  his  friends  would  be 
faithful  to  him  when  he  had  gone.  Lissakelly  was  a  prom- 
ising parish — and  there  was  the  convent.  No  Brady  to  in- 
terfere with  him  now !  But  he'd  have  to  be  careful  about 
the  convent.  Nuns  were  the  devil  when  they  grew  jealous. 
Life  was  very  difficult. 

Though  he  had  decided  to  say  nothing  of  his  promotion 
for  the  moment,  so  that  the  women  should  hear  of  it  first 
from  himself,  he  couldn't  resist  a  dig  at  Father  Flaherty, 
who  was  said  to  have  expectations  of  Lissakelly.  He  waited 
behind  as  the  bishop  passed  into  the  sacristy,  took  Father 
Flaherty  confidentially  by  the  arm,  and  said: 

"Hullo,  Flaherty.  You'll  be  glad  to  hear  that  I  have  a 
chance  of  Lissakelly." 

"As  much  chance  as  I  have,  and  that's  damn  little," 
Father  Flaherty  said  moodily. 

"The  old  man  has  given  me  the  choice."  Father  Burke 
was  a  little  nettled. 

"He  may  be  a  fool,  but  he's  not  as  big  a  fool  as  all  that. 
Try  a  rise  on  some  one  else,  my  bucko,"  Father  Flaherty 
said,  with  an  incredulous  grin. 

Father  Burke  looked  supercilious.  These  fellows  were 
so  jealous,  and  never  recognized  merit.  Flaherty  might  be 
clever  at  books,  but  he  hadn't  the  sense  to  avoid  being 
found  out,  and  would  never  get  promotion — suspension, 
more  likely.  There  would  be  red  eyes  in  Drumbawn  the 
day  he'd  leave,  no  matter  what  the  Flahertys  thought.  It 
would  be  all  to  the  good  if  Flaherty  went  round  spreading 
doubts.  It  would  open  the  question.  It  was  rather  a  pity 
he  had  said  "choice."  It  would  have  been  better  had  he 
said  that  he  had  been  appointed,  and  was  trying  to  beg  off. 


216  Vocations 

The  ceremony  embittered  him  a  little.  Kitty  always 
rankled.  She  was  one  of  his  worst  failures.  How  he  had 
lover  her,  too!  The  thought  of  all  that  he  would  almost 
have  done  for  her  made  him  shiver.  Thank  God,  her  stand- 
offishness  had  worn  out  that  madness.  He  ought  to  have 
known  the  type,  and  never  have  bothered  with  her.  But 
there  it  was,  he  just  couldn't  help  himself.  If  he  could 
only  take  her  down  a  peg?  But  it  was  no  use.  He  had 
tried  every  way.  He  could  almost  hate  her  for  the  smile 
of  indifference  she  sometimes  threw  him  lately.  She  was 
nearer  to  him  when  she  had  disliked  him. 

His  resentment  against  Kitty  made  him  think  more 
warmly  of  Winnie.  She  wasn't  a  bad  little  thing.  ...  A 
dear,  innocent  little  fool,  and  she  could  love.  She  had  de- 
veloped wonderfully.  The  more  she  got  the  more  she 
wanted.  She'd  be  heart-broken  at  his  leaving  .  .  .  poor 
little  girl.  He  was  very  fond  of  her.  If  he  could  only  do 
something  to  show  her  how  much  he  loved  her  before  going 
away.  .  .  .  Something  that  would  make  her  remember  him 
for  ever.  .  .  .  But  he  was  sure  she'd  do  that  .  .  .  some- 
thing that  would  console  her.  Those  snatched  hours  in 
the  infant  school  were  too  short.  Ah,  there  was  that,  of 
course !  He  blanched  a  little,  and  the  bougie  he  held  shook 
in  his  trembling  hand.  That  was  the  nearest  squeak  he 
had  ever  had.  Poor  Sister  Christina!  It  was  horrible  to 
think  of  her  on  the  streets  in  Liverpool.  Though  she  had 
been  horrid  to  him  she  had  never  let  out  a  word.  And 
he'd  have  helped  her  if  she'd  have  let  him.  If  he  only 
knew  as  much  as  he  knew  now,  the  accident  wouldn't  have 
happened.  The  awful  things  she  said  to  him  and  wanted 
him  to  do!  Still,  she  went  off  quietly  without  anyone  sus- 
specting  anything.  It  wasn't  necessary  for  her  to  go  to  the 
workhouse  hospital.  That  was  her  pig-headedness.  Though 
it  was  a  joke  that  it  was  run  by  nuns.  He  mustn't  think  of 
her  any  more.  It  was  all  so  harrowing — the  child  being 
brought  up  in  such  immoral  surroundings  too.  .  .  . 

He  touched  Winnie's  hand  as  the  bishop  was  putting  on 
the  ring.  It  seemed  to  spring  to  meet  his  touch.  She 


Vocations  217 

looked  up  at  him  for  a  moment.  He  mutf  do  something 
for  her.  There  was  less  danger  now  that  the  walk  went 
straight  to  the  church.  Poor  Christina  had  to  climb  over 
two  high  fences.  And  Winnie  was  cute  enough  in  getting 
out  of  the  convent  and  in.  It  would  be  more  difficult, 
though,  at  night.  Just  when  the  nuns  were  going  to  bed 
would  be  the  best  time;  and  she  could  be  back  at  three  or 
four  or  so.  The  presbytery  was  quite  safe  any  night  Brady 
and  Dunne  were  away.  The  servants  slept  at  the  back  and 
could  hear  nothing.  He'd  be  running  a  risk,  of  course,  but 
it  would  show  her  how  much  he  thought  of  her.  And  it 
wasn't  a  very  great  risk,  after  all.  Why  not  this  very 
night  ?  Dunne  was  going  to  Caltra.  And  Brady  was  likely 
to  sleep  the  night  at  Deelish — his  brother  was  very  bad — 
coming  back  for  Mass  in  the  morning.  But  he'd  have  to 
make  sure  of  that.  He'd  have  a  nice  little  supper  smuggled 
away  in  his  bedroom — champagne  and  things. 

After  Mass  he  told  Father  Brady  of  his  promotion.  The 
old  priest  frowned  and  said  dryly:  "So  Dunne  is  passed 
over  again.  Well,  well.  The  strongest  proof  of  the  truth 
of  the  old  church  is  that  she  exists  at  all."  Father  Burke 
was  annoyed — no  word  of  regret  for  his  going  nor  of  con- 
gratulation. He  managed  to  find  out,  however,  that  Father 
Brady  was  spending  the  night  at  Deelish  and  would  walk 
back  in  the  morning  in  time  for  Mass.  He  was  restored  to 
good-humour  by  what  he  felt  was  an  evident  intervention 
of  Providence.  Father  Flaherty's  anger,  expressed  in  the 
violent  remark  that  the  church  is  a  bloody  pantomime, 
cheered  him.  Bedelia  Rafter's  pale  face  and  anxious  en- 
quiry, "There's  no  truth  in  it,  is  there,  Father?"  warned 
him  to  keep  a  veil  of  mystery  over  his  going,  else  there 
might  be  scenes  in  public.  "Tell  everyone  not  to  believe 
half  of  what  they  hear.  I'll  explain  it  all.  Will  to-morrow 
at  four  do?"  he  said,  with  a  look  of  tender  regard. 

He  wished  he  hadn't  spoken  of  the  matter  so  soon,  and 
put  on  an  air  of  worried  reserve.  He  must  put  off  an  ex- 
planation with  Winnie  till  to-night.  With  luck  she  wouldn't 
hear  the  rumours,  To  the  next  enquirer  he  said  pettishly 


218  Vocations 

that  there  was  no  truth  in  the  report.  But  at  luncheon  he 
could  not  resist  telling  the  Miss  Purcells  the  truth ;  and  was 
highly  gratified  that  the  elder  stopped  eating  for  a  few 
minutes  to  discourse  on  the  decay  of  manners.  She  didn't 
know,  nor  could  the  younger  sister  when  appealed  to  help 
her  out  of  her  difficulty,  what  the  Women's  Branch  of  the 
Sacred  Heart  Sodality  would  do  without  their  gentleman- 
like Director.  There  were  priests  and  priests,  and  it  was 
possible,  of  course,  to  have  a  religious  soul  beneath  a  rough 
exterior,  but  that  nice  combination  of  both,  so  happily  ex- 
emplified in  Father  Burke,  was  difficult  to  get  twice.  But 
she  did  sincerely  hope  that  it  wouldn't  be  Father  Dunne. 
Partly  because  Father  Dunne  was  so  near,  and  partly  be- 
cause an  attractive-looking  gelatine  caught  her  eye,  she  said 
no  more,  but  her  shrug  was  expressive. 

Pleased  by  such  a  reception  of  his  news  by  what  he  called 
the  elite  of  the  town,  Father  Burke  tested  solid  business 
opinion  as  represented  in  Tom  Curtin  on  his  other  side. 
Tom  was  in  bad  humour  and  resented  any  change.  There 
were  his  own  daughters,  he  said,  making  fools  of  them- 
selves by  becoming  nuns.  He  didn't  know  what  had  come 
over  the  world,  but  the  one  thing  certain  was  that  it  was 
going  to  the  dogs;  though,  thank  God,  trade  had  never 
been  better.  That,  it  seemed,  was  exactly  Father  Burke's 
opinion  also,  and  he  was  glad  to  have  it  confirmed  from  so 
responsible  a  quarter.  He  was  extremely  worried  by  the 
choice  put  before  him  by  the  bishop,  torn  between  his  duty 
to  obey  what  was  virtually  a  command  of  his  lordship,  and 
his  own  inclinations.  Tom  Curtin  said  emphatically  that 
tishops  were  entirely  too  interfering,  but  if  the  worst  came 
to  the  worst,  the  town  would  give  Father  Burke  a  subscrip- 
tion. Father  Burke  deprecated  this  with  his  most  gloomy 
look  of  surprised  pleasure.  .  .  .  With  a  feeling  of  terror 
he  saw  Winnie  rushing  towards  them.  No,  she  didn't  know 
— she  was  looking  too  happy.  He'd  make  her  still  happier 
when  he'd  tell  her  about  it  to-night.  She  was  so  fresh  and 
pink.  Was  the  little  minx  telling  him  what  was  in  store 
for  him  by  all  this  hugging  of  her  father?  She  was  really 


Vocations  219 

pretty  to-day;  and  she  put  so  much  of  herself  into  a  look 
and  a  handshake.  Perhaps  he  was  lucky,  after  all,  in  hav- 
ing her  and  not  Kitty,  who  was  looking  so  reserved  and 
cold-blooded  up  there  beside  the  bishop.  It  was  too  late 
now  to  try  and  wake  Kitty  up.  The  convent  seemed  to 
have  frozen  her.  .  .  .  Yet  there  was  fire  in  her  he  knew. 
Though  he  had  given  her  up,  he  couldn't  help  thinking  of 
her.  He  was  very  near  hating  her,  but  she  could  make  a 
fool  of  him  still  by  a  look.  .  .  . 

He  discussed  gloomily  the  illness  of  Father  Brady's 
brother,  but  his  spirits  revived  at  the  approach  of  Kitty. 
She  looked  brighter.  He  ventured  his  mildest  method  of 
flirtation  and  was  elated  with  the  result.  If  he  was  only 
sure  she  was  thawing  he'd  be  tempted  to  refuse  Lissakelly. 
One  minute  of  her  would  be  worth  hours  of  Winnie.  She 
really  did  seem  sorry  that  he  was  going.  .  .  . 

He  broke  off  a  sentence  of  Tom  Curtin's  in  the  middle, 
saying  he  had  an  urgent  sick  call  to  attend  to.  He  must  get 
into  the  fresh  air  to  think  all  this  out.  He  couldn't  talk  to 
Winnie  now.  He  slipped  out  through  the  nearest  door,  got 
his  hat  and  strode  thoughtfully  down  the  juniper  walk 
towards  the  parish  church.  Kitty  had  disappointed  him  so 
often  that  he  was  a  fool  to  build  on  a  look  and  a  word  or 
two.  He  couldn't  give  up  Lissakelly,  of  course.  He  might 
never  get  such  a  chance  again.  But  he  could  often  come 
over  to  Drumbawn.  It  would  be  dark  to-night  without  a 
moon  .  .  .  and  the  hedges  had  grown  up  high.  He  hoped 
Winnie  wouldn't  be  afraid — there  would  be  stars  in  any 
case.  No,  he  couldn't  take  the  risk  of  coming  to  meet  her 
beyond  the  presbytery  gate.  If  only  it  were  Kitty!  He'd 
go  back  to  the  convent  in  a  few  minutes,  when  most  of  the 
visitors  had  gone,  and  try  to  have  it  out  with  her.  He'd 
arrange  with  Winnie  then,  too.  That  reminded  him.  Had 
he  finished  the  last  of  the  champagne?  It  was  too  bad  of 
Mrs.  Curtin  to  let  him  run  so  short. 

He  hurried  quickly  to  the  presbytery  and  satisfied  him- 
self that  there  was  a  bottle  left.  There  was  always  plenty 
of  cold  meat.  And  he'd  get  some  of  the  profession  cake 


220  Vocations 

from  the  nuns.  It  wasn't  a  bad  world  at  all,  though  many 
fools  of  priests  and  nuns  didn't  knock  the  best  out  of  it. 
Heigh-ho,  there  was  all  the  more  left  for  those  who  had 
sense.  He  lit  a  pipe  and  glanced  idly  through  the  Drum- 
bawn  News.  Next  week  there  would  be  an  article  on  him. 
He  really  must  be  careful  in  Lissakelly  and  not  get  too 
much  entangled.  Perhaps  he'd  better  see  the  Editor  and 
give  him  some  tips.  He  yawned,  ran  upstairs  to  his  bed- 
room, and  hummed  "Coming  through  the  Rye"  as  he 
brushed  his  hair  and  clothes.  He  looked  round  the  room 
with,  a  satisfied  smile.  It  was  fit  for  a  princess,  not  messy 
like  Brady's  and  Dunne's.  The  table  near  the  window 
would  do  for  supper.  If  only  it  were  Kitty  though.  How 
should  he  approach  her?  He'd  have  to  make  an  effort  to 
see  her  alone.  She  had  treated  him  badly,  but  he'd  forgive 
her  if  she'd  be  sensible.  ... 

He  thought  of  her  all  the  way  back  to  the  convent.  He 
cared  for  her,  of  course,  but  it  would  be  a  bit  of  a  triumph 
to  humble  her.  If  he  were  once  even  with  her  he  could 
leave  Drumbawn  happy.  Even  a  kiss  would  round  off  his 
life  somehow.  But  she  was  the  sort  that  didn't  stop  at  a 
kiss  if  they  once  got  so  far.  The  difficulty,  he  thought 
gloomily,  was  to  get  her  there. 

He  smiled  contentedly  as  he  reached  the  terrace.  His 
luck  was  standing  by  him.  It  was  a  good  augury  that  Kitty 
should  be  the  first  person  he  saw.  He  frowned.  How  did 
that  organist  fellow  get  to  know  her?  It  was  all  Dunne's 
fault,  taking  him  up.  Anyhow,  she  had  said  good-bye  to 
him.  He  was  a  cheeky  bounder  and  should  be  kept  in  his 
place.  He  preened  himself  and  advanced  to  meet  her  with 
a  smirk.  He  pulled  at  his  cuffs.  There  was  actually  a 
glow  in  her  eyes  and  she  was  smiling  at  him  in  a  more 
than  friendly  way.  He  looked  about  furtively.  Nearly  all 
the  people  had  gone.  Far  down  the  lime  avenue  was  what 
looked  like  Mrs.  Curtin  with  two  nuns. 

"I  am  looking  for  your  mother,"  he  said,  with  a  search- 
ing look  down  the  entrance  drive  where  a  very  obvious 
bishop  was  talking  to  Reverend  Mother. 


Vocations  221 

"Come  with  me,  then,"  she  said  brightly.  "She's  gone 
down  towards  the  river  meadow  with  Winnie  and  Sister 
Eulalie — father  has  given  it  to  the  convent." 

"A  generous  gift  to  God  will  bring  reward  a  hundred- 
fold." 

Unconsciously  he  lapsed  into  a  professionalism.  This 
riot  of  late  May  flowers,  in  which  spring  and  summer  met, 
was  a  tribute  to  her  beauty.  The  dead  mask  of  the  morn- 
ing had  gone,  and  a  new  life  shone  in  her  eyes.  If  he  had 
ever  seen  love,  this  was  it.  He  patted,  in  passing,  the 
golden  hair  of  a  little  orphan. 

"It's  been  a  wonderful  day,"  he  said  cheerfully. 

"Wonderful,"  she  replied,  in  an  absorbed  tone. 

"You  don't  think  so  badly  of  me  now?" 

"How  could  I?"  she  said,  with  a  happy  laugh. 

Her  joy,  confidence,  hope  intoxicated  him.  That  look  in 
her  eyes  .  .  .  that  ring  in  her  voice  was  for  him. 

She  plucked  a  leaf  of  lime  and  pressed  it  to  her  face. 
The  sunlight  flecking  her  face  through  the  tender  green  of 
the  limes,  her  soft  languorous  smile,  the  heaving  of  her 
guimpe,  the  violet  depths  of  her  eyes  burnt  him  like  fire. 
Though  his  heart  beat  violently  and  his  eyes  were  blurred, 
his  usual  caution  did  not  desert  him.  He  looked  furtively 
back.  There  was  no  one  on  the  terrace  or  in  the  avenue. 
Cows  lazily  chewed  the  cud  in  the  fields  beyond  the  iron 
palings  on  either  side.  Ahead,  Mrs.  Curtin,  Sister  Eulalie 
and  Winnie  had  disappeared  round  a  curve. 

He  snatched  the  hand  that  held  the  leaf  and  crushed  it. 
"You  do  love  me  then,  after  all?"  he  said,  with  a  confident 
leer,  though  his  lips  trembled.  "I  can't  kiss  you  here — it's 
too  public.  You  must  meet  me  somewhere." 

She  stopped  at  his  first  touch  and  looked  at  him  with  the 
pained,  uncomprehending  look  of  a  frightened  child.  Her 
eyes  wandered  from  his  triumphant  face  to  the  hand  that 
held  hers  like  a  vise.  The  white  of  his  strained  knuckles 
and  the  black  hair  on  the  backs  of  his  fingers  seemed  to 
hold  her  with  a  horrid  fascination.  Suddenly  she  flushed 
and  wrenched  away  her  hand.  She  gazed  at  him  with  a 


222  Vocations 

sort  of  dull  wonder.  Slowly  the  colour  left  her  cheeks  and 
her  expression  hardened.  With  a  contemptuous  smile  she 
walked  quickly  away. 

He  stared  at  her  with  astonishment.  A  moody  look  at 
the  creases  in  his  trousers  and  at  his  pointed  shoes  gave 
him  confidence  in  himself.  She  was  only  putting  on.  She 
ought  to  have  more  sense  now  that  she  was  professed,  but 
she  was  young.  They  were  often  like  that.  He  started 
after  her  and  laughed  as  he  came  abreast  of  her.  ...  a 
shrill  laugh,  in  which  doubt  and  self-confidence  struggled 
for  mastery. 

"Don't  play  the  injured  innocent.  You  can't  deceive  me. 
I  saw  it  in  your  eyes.  I  have  cared  for  you  ever  since  I 
first  set  eyes  on  you.  Don't  be  a  little  fool." 

"You  unspeakable  cad,"  she  said,  with  bitter  contempt, 
without  slackening  her  pace  or  looking  at  him. 

Her  cold,  level  tone  cut  his  vanity  to  the  quick.  He 
glared  savagely  at  the  back  of  her  veil.  The  idea  of  a 
daughter  of  Tom  Curtin's  treating  him  like  that.  Girls 
who  wouldn't  know  her  had  run  after  him.  He  thought  of 
Winnie  with  resentment.  He'd  have  nothing  more  to  do 
with  either  of  them.  .  .  .  But  he'd  be  lonely  to-night.  Why 
should  he  punish  Winnie  for  that  cold  devil?  It  would  be 
a  blow  to  her  pride  that  he  was  able  to  do  what  he  liked 
with  Winnie.  He  looked  at  her  sidewise  as  if  expecting 
his  thought  to  affect  her.  No  sign  of  it.  He  continued  to 
look  at  her  half  speculatively,  half  with  resentment.  She 
seemed  entirely  unconscious  of  him  and  of  what  had  hap- 
pened. Her  face  was  again  the  face  he  saw  on  the  terrace 
.  .  .  with  a  sort  of  unearthly  expression  of  joy.  Had  he 
made  a  mistake,  after  all,  and  was  she  one  of  the  religious 
lot?  The  thought  pleased  him.  If  she  was  that  sort  of  fool  it 
wasn't  because  she  cared  for  anyone  else  that  she  was  nasty 
to  him.  One  could  make  allowance  for  her  narrowness  of 
mind.  After  all,  Winnie  was  worth  ten  of  her.  His  feel- 
ings did  not,  however,  keep  pace  with  his  thoughts,  and 
there  was  resentment  in  the  laugh  with  which  he  tried  to 
say  lightly: 


Vocations  223 

"It  was  all  only  a  joke.  I  did  it  just  to  test  you — to  see  if 
you  were  the  same  old  spitfire.  What  a  pretty  pattern  the 
sun  makes  on  the  avenue." 

Her  eyes  hardened  again,  and  she  set  her  lips.  A  wor- 
ried look  came  into  her  eyes. 

"You'd  better  leave  Winnie  alone,  too,"  she  said,  with 
sudden  anger. 

"My  sister's  keeper!"  he  jeered.  "But  your  Sanctity 
needn't  worry — I'm  going  to  Lissakelly." 

"Thank  God !" 

He  winced,  but  Winnie's  sudden  blush,  as  they  turned 
the  corner,  restored  his  confidence. 

Mrs.  Curtin  and  Sister  Eulalie  got  up,  with  exclamations 
of  pleasure,  from  the  wooden  seat  overlooking  the  river 
and  advanced  to  meet  him,  while  Winnie  shrank  shyly 
behind. 

"Talk  of  an  angel !"  Sister  Eulalie  held  up  a  chiding 
finger.  "I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  of  you,  Father  James. 
Throwing  us  over  like  this !" 

"The  whole  town'll  be  broken-hearted,"  Mrs.  Curtin 
lamented.  "It  was  the  luck  of  the  world  I  didn't  hear  it 
before  the  ceremony  or  it  would  take  away  my  appetite.  I 
can't  even  take  any  pleasure  in  the  field  Tom  gave  the  holy 
nuns  all  on  the  head  of  it.  It's  a  good  parish,  I'm  told. 
And  coming  on  the  day  it  did,  isn't  it  the  reward  of  God  for 
all  you  did  for  them  girls?  It's  proud  I  am  that  you  were 
able  to  sign,  seal  and  deliver  'em  before  you  went." 

"How  anxious  you  are  to  get  rid  of  me,"  he  laughed. 
"But  you  won't  drive  me  away  so  easily  as  all  that." 

"You  know  I  don't  wish  you  to  go — far  from  it,"  Sister 
Eulalie  said  sentimentally. 

"Don't  keep  me  on  tenterhooks.  Is  there  a  chance  of 
your  not  going,  after  all?"  Mrs.  Curtin  cried.  "It'd  be  the 
happy  relief  and  I  near  torn  in  two  with  trying  to  make  up 
my  mind  whether  I'd  go  to  confession  to  Father  Brady  or 
Father  Dunne,  and  they  both  without  a  heart  the  size  of  a 
chicken's  between  'em,  or  wait  and  run  the  risk  of  the  new 
man." 


224  V  ocations 

"Not  a  word  till  to-morrow."  Father  Burke  pursed  his 
lips  mysteriously.  "I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  the  new 
banners  for  the  Sacred  Heart." 

"They  don't  want  us,  Kitty,"  Sister  Eulalie  said,  with  a 
languishing  look  at  Father  Burke.  "And  I  haven't  had  a 
moment  with  you  yet  to  talk  over  the  glorious  day." 

"There,  there;  say  no  more  about  it/'  Mrs.  Curtin  said, 
after  a  short  discussion.  "Buy  them  and  I'll  make  up  the 
ten  pounds  difference.  If  it  were  twenty  it's  glad  enough 
I'd  be  to  give  it  to  a  saint  like  you.  There's  that  Kitty 
away  down  at  the  bottom  of  the  field.  I'll  have  to  call  her 
and  Tom  expecting  me  back  to  meet  Jameson's  traveller." 

Father  Burke  strolled  quietly  over  to  the  railing  where 
Winnie,  with  a  flushed,  excited  face,  was  staring  at  the 
river. 

"You  couldn't  go?  I  knew  it — I  knew  it,"  she  said,  in 
a  tense  whisper. 

"What  a  beautiful  view!"  he  said,  watching  Mrs.  Cur- 
tin  move  down  the  walk. 

"Tell  me — tell  me?  I  don't  know  whether  I'm  dead  or 
alive,"  she  said  miserably. 

"What  a  timid  little  mouse  we  are !  Trust  me.  I'll  ex- 
plain everything  to-night."  He  brushed  her  hand  with  his. 

"The  schoolroom?"  she  said  eagerly,  her   face  flushing. 

"Much  better  than  that.  You  must  be  my  own  brave 
little  girl,  but  it  will  be  worth  it." 

He  gave  her  minute  instructions  in  a  low  voice. 

"It  will  be  the  crown  of  a  perfect  day."  She  gazed  at 
him  with  shining  eyes. 

"Be  prudent  now.  Let  us  walk  on  to  meet  them  as  if 
nothing  was  up." 

"You  saint  out  of  heaven,"  she  said  fervently. 


Chapter  15 

KITTY    listened    to    the    conversation    of    her 
mother,  Sister  Eulalie  and  Father  Burke  with 
a  sort  of  objective  interest.     She  felt  more  and 
more  than  she  was  a  spectator,  rather  grimly 
amused,  of  a  play. 

For  three  years  she  had  been  seeing  the  convent  as  an 
instrument  of  her  salvation,  as  her  only  protection  against 
sin.  She  had  excused  its  faults,  magnified  its  virtues,  saw 
in  it  only  what  she  wished  to  see.  All  that  the  soul  needed 
could  be  found  within  its  walls;  and  if  she  had  not  found 
the  peace  she  sought,  the  blame  lay  in  the  immeasurable 
depth  of  her  own  depravity,  not  in  any  defect  in  the  con- 
vent. The  nuns,  in  their  several  ways,  were  aiming  at  per- 
fection. If  she  could  not  always  understand  them  it  was 
due  to  her  spiritual  blindness.  .  .  . 

Then  suddenly,  at  the  luncheon,  all  sense  of  sin  had 
fallen  from  her.  An  understanding  look  from  a  man 
seemed  to  have  spirited  it  away.  There  was  some  new 
freedom  in  her  limbs,  in  her  feelings,  in  her  mind.  If  this 
was  the  effect  of  her  vows  it  was  perfectly  wonderful.  She 
was  rescued  from  prison  and  made  free  of  the  earth  and 
all  its  beauty.  It  was  as  if  she  stood  outside  and  above  all 
the  bonds  that  had  enclosed  her.  She  had  somehow  been 
born  over  again.  She  had  felt  this  keenly  as  she  walked 
by  Father  Burke's  side  up  the  lime  avenue.  The  old  self  of 
fear  was  gone.  Prayer  was  no  longer  almost  a  temptation 
to  sin,  but  a  communion  with  the  new  God  that  dwelt  in 
her  new  heart;  .  .  .  Who  was  all  around  her  in  the  dap- 
pled light  dancing  on  the  walk,  in  the  soft  west  wind,  in 
the  glory  of  the  leaves  against  the  sky.  To  breathe  was  a 
prayer.  To  be  out  in  the  open,  to  smell  the  fresh  grass 
and  the  limes,  to  feel  the  joys  of  form  and  colour  was  a 
225 


226  Vocations 

song  of  praise.  Father  Burke's  attempt  at  love-making 
had  given  her  a  shock,  but  not  for  long.  He  was  of  the 
evil  things  that  were  now  outside  her,  that  could  not  hurt 
her.  If  it  weren't  for  his  influence  over  Winnie  she  could 
laugh  at  him.  Not  even  his  clammy  touch  could  now  give 
her  a  bad  thought.  Was  he  evil?  or  only  in  bonds  as  she 
had  been?  Anyhow,  she  disliked  him.  .  .  . 

She  half  wished  she  did  not  see  things  so  clearly  now. 
She  mustn't  allow  herself  to  become  intolerant.  Yet  this 
wide-awakeness  of  mind  was  a  small  price  to  pay  for  her 
lightness  of  heart.  It  was  more  amusing,  too,  to  see  the 
futilities  of  the  convent  without  rose-coloured  glasses.  The 
last  scene  at  the  luncheon  had  been  grotesque.  The  bishop 
cut  such  a  ridiculous  figure,  with  a  glass  of  champagne  in 
one  hand  and  a  huge  piece  of  wedding  cake  in  the  other, 
extolling  holy  poverty  and  comparing  her,  Kitty,  in  a  rather 
mixed  peroration,  to  the  Rose  of  Sharon,  the  Queen  of 
Sheba  and  St.  Catherine.  While  poor  Reverend  Mother 
sat  apart,  a  tragic  figure,  saying  her  beads,  and  Father 
Brady  glowered  and  Father  Dunne  cynically  took  snuff. 
The  new  organist  had  seemed  as  much  outside  it  all  as  she. 
And  she  could  look  at  him  and  think  of  him  without  any 
horrid  desire,  as  a  friend.  What  had  wrought  the  miracle? 
She  was  sure  he  could  be  a  wonderful  friend.  She  felt  it  in 
the  firm  pressure  of  his  hand  as  he  said  good-bye  on  the 
terrace. 

She  must  have  been  blind  to  have  though  that  Father 
Burke  had  changed.  He  wasn't  even  a  good  hypocrite — a 
sort  of  pinchbeck  imitation.  Anyone  could  see  through 
him.  Yet  he  deceived  her  mother,  and  Sister  Eulalie.  And 
Winnie  was  hanging  on  his  words  as  if  her  life  depended 
on  him.  It  was  dreadful  to  be  in  love  on  the  very  day  of 
one's  profession,  and  with  such  a  man.  It  all  came  of  the 
unreality  of  the  convent  life.  Sin  was  fondled  in  avoiding 
it,  or  was  given  a  frill  and  enjoyed. 

"Father  Burke  is  so  wonderful — always  up  to  his  eyes  in 
some  holy  project  or  another,"  Sister  Eulalie  said  ecstat- 


Vocations  227 

icall>,  as  she  bore  Kitty  away.  "The  nuns  will  be  in  despair 
if  he  goes." 

"I  wish  Winnie  wasn't  in  love  with  him,"  Kitty  said 
viciously. 

"Not  in  love,  dear — you  must  never  use  that  word.  Nuns 
mustn't  fall  in  love."  Sister  Eulalie  spoke  in  a  tone  of 
gentle  correction.  "Devoted?  Yes,  I'm  afraid  it  will  be 
a  sad  blow  for  the  poor  child." 

"Why  not  call  a  spade  a  spade?" 

"No,  dear,  no.  Never  that,"  Sister  Eulalie  said  firmly. 
"A  certain  amount  of  freedom  of  speech  is,  of  course, 
allowable  now  that  you  are  professed.  But  never  anything 
so  coarse  as  that.  The  French  have  a  gift  in  these  delicate 
matters.  Epris,  if  you  like.  Poor  old  Reverend  Mother 
has  prejudices  against  these  attachments.  But  to  me  they 
are  very  beautiful — when  the  object  is  worthy,  of  course, 
and  they  are  the  overflow  of  a  superabundant  love  for  God. 
Dear  Winnie  is  so  true  and  steadfast,  and,  if  the  worst 
came  to  the  worst,  she  can  offer  it  up.  She  recalls  a  sor- 
rowful incident  in  my  own  past " 

"Reverend  Mother  is  going  to  run  the  avenue  down  to 
the  river-bank,"  Kitty  interrupted. 

Sister  Eulalie  sighed.  "Ah,  yes,  poor  Reverend  Mother. 
Her  age,  I  suppose,  and  overpraying.  Her  latest  is  to  take 
the  Infant  School  away  from  me.  I  don't  complain.  But 
some  of  the  Sisters  are  saying  she's  past  her  work.  Some 
of  us  have  been  putting  our  heads  together — nothing  but 
good  feeling  for  dear  Reverend  Mother,  of  course.  .  .  . 
Relieved  of  office  she'd  have  more  time  for  her  prayers  and 
her  flowers  .  .  .  and  Michael  would  go.  You'll  join  us, 
dear?  The  party  of  progress  we  call  it." 

"Whom  will  you  make  Reverend  Mother?"  Kitty  asked. 

"The  Holy  Ghost  will  decide,"  Sister  Eulalie  modestly 
replied,  a  faint  blush  on  her  sallow  cheeks. 

"He  might  choose  Mother  Teresa  again,"  Kitty  said 
dryly. 

"I  think  not,  dear.  Indeed,  I  know  He  won't.  We've 
counted  the  votes  carefully.  God  has  been  very  good  to  us. 


228  Vocations 

Darling  Winnie  is  enthusiastic.  With  another  vote  or  two 
we'd  be  quite  certain.  You'll  have  yours  before  the  next 
election.  You  know  how  very  fond  of  you  both  I  am,  but, 
naturally,  the  supporters  of  the  new  regime  will  expect  to 
be  the  favourites.  We'll  expect  to  find  you  on  the  side  of 
God's  holy  will,  dearest  Kitty.  But  there's  your  darling 
mother  calling  us  back.  I  won't  ask  your  promise  now. 
With  the  hints  I've  given  you  God  is  sure  to  direct  you 
if  you  pray  for  guidance  and  submit  your  will  to  Him." 

Kitty  was  watching  with  a  frown  the  manoeuvres  of 
Father  Burke.  She  hurried  forward,  in  advance  of  Sister 
Eulalie,  to  meet  her  mother.  Anyhow,  the  priest  was  leav- 
ing and  couldn't  do  much  more  harm  to  Winnie.  The  poor 
child  was  looking  like  a  ghost.  Love  was  such  a  mystery. 
How  much  of  a  tragedy  could  it  be  with  Winnie  ?  Was  it 
love  at  all,  or  mere  convent  silliness?  Why  was  she  seeing 
everything  to-day  in  such  a  hard,  clear  light?  Up  to  now 
she  had  been  warding  off  the  convent  and  all  it  meant,  turn- 
ing her  mind  in  on  herself,  so  occupied  with  her  own  emo- 
tions and  temptations  that  outside  things  passed  her  by 
almost  unheeded.  To-day  they  seemed  to  jump  at  her.  It 
was  as  if  her  mind  had  been  asleep  for  three  years  and  had 
suddenly  woke  up.  The  convent  was  silly  enough  as  it 
was,  but  what  should  it  be  under  Eulalie  ?  Reverend  Mother 
might  be  old  and  past  her  work,  but  she  gave  one  a  feeling 
of  confidence.  One  felt  in  talking  to  her  that  she  was  real, 
though  she  seemed  surer  of  the  next  world  than  of  this. 
She  saw  things  clearly  enough,  though  she  seemed  tired  and 
uncertain,  as  if  life  was  too  complex  a  problem. 

"I'll  be  leaving  them  with  you,  Sister  Eulalie,"  Mrs.  Cur- 
tin  said  joyfully,  puffing  and  beaming  as  they  joined  her, 
"and  be  going  home  with  a  light  heart.  We  put  the  cor- 
ner-stone on  their  happiness  to-day,  praise  be.  I  feel  that 
proud  that  I  could  almost  fly.  Now  that  they're  on  the 
straight  road  to  God  they  mustn't  forget  to  give  their  old 
mother  a  lift  on  the  way.  Not  but  what  I  feel  miles  nearer 
to  heaven  already,  praise  the  Lord,  and  it  the  best  day's 
work  I  ever  done." 


V  ocations  229 

"You  are,  indeed,  specially  favoured,  dear  Johanna," 
Sister  Eulalie  said,  with  emotion.  "My  own  dear  mother 
felt  herself  blessed  in  having  one  child  a  nun,  but  to  have 
two " 

She  looked  soul  fully  at  the  sky,  as  if  words  were  too 
weak  to  express  such  beatitude. 

Kitty  had  not  taken  her  eyes  off  Father  Burke  and  Win- 
nie, who  were  coming  towards  them,  Winnie  blushing  and 
smiling,  Father  Burke  serious  and  detached. 

"There  is  happiness!"  Sister  Eulalie  whispered  to  Jo- 
hanna, nodding  towards  Winnie.  "Doesn't  it  show  that 
the  grace  of  God  passeth  all  understanding?" 

"She  was  peaked  enough  a  minute  ago,  but  Father  Burke 
could  always  work  a  miracle  on  her,"  Mrs.  Curtin  said 
complacently,  taking  possession  of  the  priest  who  walked 
on  ahead  with  her  and  Sister  Eulalie. 

"You  seem  to  have  recovered.  I  suppose  he  was  making 
love  to  you  again,"  Kitty  said  morosely  to  Winnie,  as  they 
followed. 

"What  language  for  a  professed  nun!  I'm  really 
ashamed  of  you."  Winnie  spoke  reprovingly,  her  eyes 
focussed  in  an  absorbed  stare  on  the  back  of  Father 
Burke's  head. 

"He's  a  dreadful  man— he'll  hurt  you,"  Kitty  pleaded. 

"If  I  were  as  jealous  as  all  that,  I'd  try  and  hide  it," 
Winnie  retorted.  "I  hate  you.  Don't  speak  to  me  again — 
I'm  giong  to  say  a  rosary." 

The  bell  for  visit  before  dinner  to  the  Blessed  Sacrament 
began  to  ring.  Sister  Eulalie  stopped  and  put  her  finger  to 
her  lips. 

"It's  really  silence,  but  you  can  just  say  good-bye,  Jo- 
hanna," she  said,  in  a  prim  tone. 

Mrs.  Curtin  embraced  Winnie  and  Kitty. 

"You're  happy  at  long  last."    She  held  a  hand  of  each. 

"We  are— we  are,"  said  Winnie  eagerly. 

Kitty  had  difficulty  in  supressing  an  almost  uncontroll- 
able desire  to  laugh.  Not  that  she  did  not  feel  happy.  She 
had  never  felt  so  happy.  She  was  a  little  worried  by  Win- 


230  Vocations 

me  and  Father  Burke,  but  that  was  only  on  the  surface  of 
her  mind.  Her  happiness  was  something  independent  of 
them  all,  of  the  convent,  too;  some  secret  that  she  shared 
with  the  wind  now  gently  rustling  the  leaves  overhead. 
Her  real  self  was  ranging  the  far  hills  while  her  comic 
ghost  was  playing  a  part  in  an  inexpressibly  funny  comedy : 
Father  Burke  staring  at  her  insolent  triumph  while  he 
pressed  Winnie's  hand  tenderly;  Winnie  gazing  at  him  in 
dumb  devotion;  old  Eulalie  ogling  Father  Burke;  her 
mother's  contented  smile,  approving  it  all  as  a  manifesta- 
tion of  divine  grace  arranged  by  God  and  herself. 

For  the  first  time  since  she  entered  the  convent  Kitty 
felt  at  peace  during  the  visit  to  the  Blessed  Sacrament. 
And  her  happiness  came  from  the  feeling,  not  of  being  one 
of  the  silent  worshippers,  but  of  being  outside  them,  as 
much  apart  from  them  as  the  God  to  whom  they  sighed. 
She  was  at  one  with  the  God  who  gave  her  this  wonderful 
feeling  of  peace.  She  had  no  need  to  sigh  and  moan.  .  .  . 
God  was  in  her  heart.  She  had  a  feeling  of  looking  with 
His  eyes  along  the  two  rows  of  bent,  black  figures,  splashed 
with  mauve  and  green  and  red  by  the  light  that  streamed 
through  the  stained-glass  windows.  Yesterday  she  had 
been  like  them  .  .  .  groaning  and  moving  restlessly.  They 
were  torturing  themselves,  as  she  had  tortured  herself,  to 
no  purpose,  for  God  only  smiled  mockingly  in  the  vivid 
colours  that  danced  on  the  tessellated  floor,  on  the  polished 
brasses,  on  their  black  and  white  robes. 

The  black  and  white,  irregular  file  of  nuns  moving 
towards  the  refectory  made  her  think  again  of  a  prison 
.  .  .  with  a  vague  wonder  that  she  was  there  among  the 
prisoners.  .  .  . 

Why  was  Sister  Jacoba  racing  through  the  Martyrology  ? 

"Conversation  at  dinner.  Hurrah!"  Muredach  said,  in 
a  gleeful  whisper. 

"And  piles  and  piles  of  things  in  the  Community  Room," 
Dolorosa  said,  with  a  watering  mouth.  "Sweets  and  cakes 
and  fruit — and  peaches,"  she  added,  licking  her  lips. 


Vocations  231 

"Buck  up,  Catherine,  and  don't  look  like  a  stuck  pig. 
It's  your  feast,  you  know,"  Muredach  said  indignantly. 

Kitty  shivered.  She  had  forgotten  that  she  was  a  nun 
for  ever.  Every  day  she'd  have  to  eat  at  this  long  table, 
and  stare  at  the  German  print  of  the  Wandering  Jew  on 
the  wall  opposite.  Though  mostly,  thank  God,  she'd  be 
listening  to  scraps  of  spiritual  reading  filtering  through  the 
clatter  of  knives  and  forks  and  not  to  this  jabber.  She 
was  no  better  off  than  the  goldfinch  in  the  noviceship  who 
beat  his  wings  helplessly  against  the  wires  of  the  cage. 
"Wasn't  Father  Burke  a  duck?" 

"I  wouldn't  give  one  little  finger  of  St.  John  of  the  Cross 
for  all  the  St.  Teresas  in  the  world." 

"When  I'm  in  good  form  I  can  say  thirteen  Hail  Marys 
in  a  minute.  ...  I  said  forty-seven  thousand  in  a  month 
for  the  Chinese  babies.     I  was  head  of  the  noviceship  list. 
I  bet  you  five  rosaries  you  can't  beat  that." 
"What'll  poor  Win  do  if  Father  Burke  goes?" 
"I  won't  have  a  word  said  against  the  bishop.    His  face 
goes  beautifully  with  his  purple  robes.    And  the  heavenly 
thrill  of  his  voice — so  spiritual,  my  dear." 

"Spoons,  indeed! — you  should  see  old  Anne  and  Father 
Flaherty." 

"Father  Bernardine  spoke  for  three  minutes  and  a  half 
to  me." 

"Talk  of  icebergs,  my  dear!  You  know  how  Alphonsa 
would  try  to  get  up  a  case  with  a  broomstick.  But  not  he. 
Never  snakes  hands  even.  I'm  sick  of  singing  for  a  man 
who  won't  even  look  at  you." 

Kitty  felt  a  thrill  of  satisfaction.  She  hoped  Joseph 
would  go  on  speaking  of  the  organist.  She  knew  he  was 
that  kind.  She  strained  her  ears,  but  Joseph  had  jerked 
the  conversation  on  to  an  infallible  prayer  against  tooth- 
ache. 

If  the  din  would  only  cease,  and  she  could  get  out  in  the 
open!  But  there  was  the  feast  in  the  Community  Room 
yet  to  come.  Some  day  she'd  grow  used  to  it,  be  able  to 
withdraw  herself  from  it  all,  like  Reverend  Mother,  who 


232  Vocations 

sat  at  the  top  table  as  if  it  were  her  stall  in  chapel,  while 
Mother  Michael  and  Mother  Calixta  sparred  across  her  un- 
heeded. 

"I'll  have  no  gadders  teaching  my  girls,"  Sister  Thomas- 
ine  said  sternly.  "What  is  it  to  me  if  she's  professed? 
That  only  makes  her  a  black  fool  instead  of  a  white  one. 
I'll  give  the  sixth  class  to  Sister  Catherine,  and  I'll  get  her 
in  spite  of  sixty  Calixtas." 

"That  was  meant  for  me/'  Sister  Dolorosa  whispered, 
with  a  giggle.  "But  it's  really  one  in  the  eye  for  you, 
Catherine.  I  wish  you  luck  on  old  Tom's  treadmill." 

"I'll  like  it,"  Kitty  said,  looking  her  pleasure.  .  .  . 
Thomasine  was  a  strict  disciplinarian,  and  working  under 
her  was  no  sinecure.  It  was  real  work — seven  hours  a  day 
of  it.  ...  She  should  be  free  in  the  senior  school  from 
the  religiosity  of  Sister  Gregory  in  the  orphanage  and 
from  the  sickly  sentimentality  that  hung  round  the  infant 
school.  .  .  Thomasine  sentimentalized  saints  as  little  as 
priests. 

Kitty  counted  hours  on  her  fingers.  With  Mass  and 
meditation  and  prayers  and  the  Office  there  would  only 
be  the  recreations  left  .  .  .  and  these  would  be  more  toler- 
able in  the  Community  Room.  And  there  was  her  choir 
practice  of  course.  She  must  do  her  very  best  in  that.  .  .  . 

Her  life  in  the  convent  seemed  to  stretch  out  before  her 
like  a  long,  white  road,  infinitely  dreary.  Why  did  she  see 
it  like  this  when  she  really  felt  so  happy? 

"Of  the  two  I  prefer  Winnie,  she's  far  and  away  the 
truer  nun.  You  can  see  spirituality  shining  out  of  her 
eyes,"  came  in  a  clear  whisper  through  the  din  of  high- 
pitched  voices. 

That  was  Immaculata,  who  was  said  to  have  such  acu- 
men about  vocations.  Winnie  was  looking  happy.  Was 
that  glow  in  her  eyes  spirituality?  Vocations  were  queer 
things.  She  had  never  been  able  to  see  her  own  as  Father 
Bernardine  saw  it.  All  Father  Brady  would  ever  say  was 
that  when  one  took  up  an  oar  one  had  better  strive  to  pull 
one's  best.  .  .  She  had  entered  the  convent  to  avoid  her- 


Vocations  233 

self,  but  she  had  brought  herself  with  her.  .  .  .  And  the 
torture  had  gone  now.  If  her  vows  had  done  that  she 
must  have  a  vocation.  .  .  .  Yet  the  happiness  she  felt 
seemed  to  have  no  connection  with  the  convent.  She  felt 
close  to  God,  but  the  nuns  and  the  convent  seemed  to  come 
between  her  and  Him.  She  had  no  devotion  to  her  habit, 
or  to  the  holy  founder  or  to  the  holy  Rule.  One  kept  that 
because  it  was  the  decent  thing  to  do.  Would  she  always 
have  this  feeling  of  wanting  to  be  away  from  the  jabber, 
to  be  out  in  the  lime  avenue  overlooking  the  river;  or 
better,  on  Dangan  hill  .  .  .  anywhere  where  there  was  a 
wind,  and  water  and  trees  and  gorse  in  bloom.  .  .  . 

She'd  never  stand  on  Dangan  hill  again.  It  was  chilly  in 
here.  She  could  never  go  mad  now,  like  Basil.  She  was 
too  happy  for  that.  She  was  alive  for  the  first  time  for 
years.  She  wanted  to  give  herself  .  .  .  but  there  seemed  to 
be  nothing  to  give  herself  to.  ...  The  only  thing  she'd 
really  enjoy  was  her  singing.  She  felt  as  if  she  could  sing 
for  ever  .  .  .  only  once  a  week  in  the  parish  church,  twice 
or  three  times  a  week  occasionally?  And  in  between? 
There  was  the  work  of  the  school,  of  course.  Work  was 
a  great  help.  But  she  couldn't  take  Sister  Thomasine's  in- 
terest in  sums  and  geography,  and  the  Office  would  be  more 
of  a  bore  than  ever  without  her  temptations  to  struggle 
against  .  .  . 

"Hush!  Catherine  has  joined  contemplatives,"  Mure- 
dach  jeered. 

"She's  dreaming  of  Father  Bernardine,"  Dolorosa 
giggled. 

Kitty  blushed.  She  had  just  thought  of  the  organist 
...  of  his  rather  austere  face  which  one  could  trust.  .  .  . 

"Leave  her  to  the  frumps,  where  she  belongs,"  Mure- 
dach  said  impatiently.  "Listen.  I  had  such  a  time  with  the 
young  priest  from  Derrydonnelly.  He  promised  me  five 
masses." 

"Mother  Calixta  says  we  mustn't  discuss  men,  dear," 
Sister  Augusta  said  timidly. 

"Who's  speaking  of  men?    He's  a  priest.    Such  beautiful 


234  Vocations 

eyes — as  soft  as  soft,"  Muredach  said.  "Catherine  could 
tell  you  all  about  them — they  run  miles  after  her,"  she 
added  maliciously. 

Kitty  tried  to  make  a  flippant  reply,  but  failed.  There 
was  something  more  than  silly  about  this  sort  of  talk  to- 
day. It  seemed,  somehow,  a  desecration.  There  was  some- 
thing lascivious  in  it,  something  unclean,  something  that 
soiled  her  newly  found  purity.  No  wonder  the  organist 
smiled  in  that  ironic  way.  He  seemed  so  far  above  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  What  did  he  think  of  her? 

Her  eyes  ranged  slowly  over  the  tables.  Was  she  one  of 
the  frumps,  as  Muredach  said?  Their  holiness  seemed  as 
remote  from  her  as  the  philandering  of  the  others.  It  was 
said  that  Reverend  Mother  wore  a  hair  shirt,  and  Sister 
Genevieve  practised  dreadful  austerities.  .  .  .  Yesterday 
she  could  have  done  this,  but  not  to-day.  And  she  wasn't 
afraid  of  death  like  Sister  Attracta,  who  spent  all  the  time 
she  could  in  the  chapel  in  the  hope  that  she  might  die  there 
and  have  her  agony  under  the  eyes  of  God.  .  .  .  She  was 
no  longer  even  afraid  of  hell,  so  vividly  present  to  Sister 
Matthew,  who  was  in  a  cold  sweat  if  her  fingers  were  not 
touching  her  beads  .  .  .  who  wore  them  at  night  tied  round 
her  hand.  .  .  . 

Was  there  any  common  bond  at  all  between  her  and 
them?  She  could  not  even  use  the  language  of  the  con- 
vent. Words  there  had  almost  lost  their  meaning.  God 
was  a  God  of  love  or  an  austere  demon;  a  ridiculous 
image  of  Father  Burke  or  some  other  popular  confessor  or 
preacher ;  a  plaything,  a  lover — some  one  to  be  cajoled  and 
flattered,  loved  and  feared.  After  all,  was  she  not  like  the 
other  nuns  in  this?  Yesterday  she  had  feared  God,  to-day 
she  loved  Him.  .  .  .  Perhaps  all  the  nuns,  herself  in- 
cluded, were  drifting  about  on  separate  little  islands,  with 
only  their  dress  and  their  humanity  in;  common,  never 
touching,  never  understanding  one  another.  .  .  . 

Mother  Michael  tapped  the  table  in  front  of  her.  When 
the  confusion  of  last  words,  the  moving  back  of  chairs,  the 
shuffling  of  feet  in  standing  up  had  ceased,  Reverend 


Vocations  235 

Mother  said  grace.  Kitty  smiled  as  she  joined  the  file  to 
the  chapel  for  the  short  visit  after  dinner.  Mother  Michael 
called  God  to  attention  just  as  she  ordered  the  nuns  about, 
methodically  and  with  certainty.  Reverend  Mother  spoke 
to  Him  as  to  some  far  off,  impenetrable  mystery. 

And  all  the  time  He  was  coursing  through  her  veins, 
singing  joyfully  in  her  heart.  He  was  saying  something  to 
her,  she  did  not  quite  know  what;  something  wonderful 
that  needed  no  definition,  which  satisfied  in  itself  without 
bothering  about  its  meaning. 

She  lingered  in  the  chapel,  unwilling  to  face  the  dis- 
traction of  the  Community  Room.  The  novices  were  to 
come  in  there  to-day  for  the  feast.  ...  If  only  she  could 
fly  away  and  leave  it  all.  Nothing  could  ever  break  the 
spell  that  now  held  her;  yet  the  clatter  of  the  nuns  would 
impair  it  somehow.  If  only  she  had  joined  an  Order  of 
perpetual  silence !  No,  not  that  either.  What  was  it  she 
wanted?  She  didn't  know.  She  had  everything.  .  .  . 
Happiness  welled  in  her  heart,  yet  she  seemed  to  want 
more.  Perhaps  she  was  becoming  a  mystic  like  Sister 
Stephen.  .  .  . 

She  stood  in  the  corridor  and  looked  through  a  window 
at  the  flowers.  .  .  .  Once  before  she  had  that  desire  to  go 
away  ...  to  walk  for  ever  along  a  road  that  never  ended, 
alone  with  her  heart.  But  that  was  when  she  was  in  love 
with  Dr.  Thornton.  And  she  was  a  nun  now.  .  .  .  The 
empty  corridor  was  more  like  a  prison  than  ever.  .  .  . 

Reverend  Mother  came  out  of  the  cloak-room,  her  out- 
door boots  on,  a  stout  stick  in  her  hand. 

"Fie,  fie,"  she  said,  with  a  whimsical  smile.  "Not  up- 
stairs yet,  and  it  your  feast." 

"Winnie  is  there.  Let  me  go  with  you,"  Kitty  said 
eagerly. 

"I  oughtn't,  you  know,"  Reverend  Mother  said  doubt- 
fully. "Well,  well,  I  may  as  well  confess  I'm  escaping  it 
myself.  When  you  are  as  old  as  me  even  feast  days  will 
bore  you  a  little.  Slip  on  your  boots.  I'm  going  down  to 


236  Vocations 

have  a  look  at  the  river  meadow.  You'll  easily  catch  me 
up." 

Kitty  caught  her  up  within  a  few  yards  of  the  front 
steps.  They  walked  on  togethen.  in  silence.  Reverend 
Mother  fingered  her  beads,  stooped  to  touch  a  flower,  stood 
for  a  moment  to  watch  the  pink  May  trees,  and  walked  on 
with  a  sigh.  Kitty  sighed  contentedly.  Reverend  Mother 
didn't  jar  with  the  beauty  of  things.  She  never  talked 
twaddle  about  God  or  the  saints  and  she  could  be  silent. 
If  the  convent  was  always  like  this.  Her  thoughts  leapt 
to  the  river.  Once  she  had  rowed  down  with  Winnie  to 
Dunbrack,  but  a  more  beautiful  stretch  was  just  beyond, 
skirting  the  woods  of  Lavally.  To  go  on  and  on  to  the 
sea  was  a  dream  she  had  always  had,  and  now  it  could 
never  come  true.  .  .  . 

"Have  you  ever  wanted  to  get  out  of  the  convent,  Rev- 
erend Mother?"  she  asked  suddenly. 

"Oh,  yes,"  Reverend  Mother  replied,  her  eyes  absent- 
mindedly  on  the  blue  of  the  distant  mountains. 

"And  how  did  you  get  over  it?" 

"It  wore  off,  I  suppose.  One  has  aches  enough  to 
occupy  one's  mind  at  my  age  without  remembering  the  old 
ones.  Mercifully  one  forgets." 

Kitty  shivered  a  little.  Ache  was  the  word  that  de- 
scribed her  feeling  now  ...  a  sharp  pain  that  constricted 
her  breast  without  diminishing  her  happiness  .  .  .  astrin- 
gent but  exquisitely  pleasant,  like  lemon  on  the  tongue 
when  one  was  thirsty. 

"Goodness  me,"  Reverend  Mother  said  nervously,  wak- 
ing up  from  her  reverie.  "You  were  only  professed  to-day, 
child.  You're  not  unhappy?" 

"Oh,  no.     It's  the  hills  or  something   .    .    .   the  smoke 

"The  only  way  is  to  lose  yourself  in  God,"  Reverend 
Mother  said,  with  the  air  of  having  lost  herself  in  her 
plans  for  the  river  meadow. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  never  knew  anything  about  Him  till  to- 
day," Kitty  said  in  a  hushed  tone,  as  if  afraid  to  break  the 


V  ocations  237 

spell  which  the  afternoon  stillness  and  light  had  cast  on  the 
broad  plain. 

"Eh,  that's  a  good  sign  of  your  vocation,"  Reverend 
Mother  said  after  a  pause,  in  which  she  had  come  to  a 
decision  about  the  paths  in  the  meadow  beneath  her. 

Kitty  stared  at  the  winding  river.  The  colour  seemed  to 
have  gone  out  of  everything.  It  was  the  talk  of  vocations 
that  gave  her  a  sort  of  empty  feeling.  She  felt  a  slight 
chill,  turned  round  and  looked  at  the  convent,  half 
shrouded  in  trees.  In  the  shadow  of  a  cloud  all  charm 
had  gone  out  of  it.  The  limestone  orphanage  looked  raw 
and  menacing.  She  shut  her  eyes  with  a  feeling  of  revul- 
sion. 

"We'll  sit  here  a  minute,"  Reverend  Mother  said,  sink- 
ing with  a  sigh  of  relief  on  a  wooden  bench. 

Kitty  sat  down,  her  limbs  trembling.  She  clenched  her 
fingers  in  the  effort  to  hold  something  that  was  slipping 
from  her.  She  wouldn't  let  go  her  happiness.  The  con- 
vent threatened  to  snatch  it  from  her.  She  had  been  dead, 
but  now  she  was  alive.  She  had  tried  to  escape  from  life 
and  it  had  come  back  to  her  miraculously.  ...  It  was 
surging  in  her  veins  now.  She  opened  her  eyes,  half  afraid 
of  losing  an  illusion,  and  drew  a  deep  breath  of  content. 
The  plain  was  flooded  in  light.  The  town  smiled  back  at 
her  peacefully.  The  river,  in  a  shimmer  of  silver,  seemed 
to  laugh  at  her  fears. 

Yet  this  morning  she  had  renounced  life.  .  .  . 

The  thought  passed  lightly  through  her  mind.  It  re- 
curred as  she  tried  to  trace  the  course  of  the  river  hidden 
by  the  Lavally  woods.  She  played  with  the  thought  as  with 
something  odd  and  interesting  that  had  no  particular  rela- 
tion to  herself. 

"I  have  it  all  in  my  mind  now.  Let  us  be  going  back." 
Reverend  Mother  rose  with  the  help  of  her  stick. 

Kitty,  with  a  wrench,  turned  her  eyes  away  from  the 
view  that  absorbed  her,  and  followed  with  dragging  steps. 
The  sun  was  now  gilding  the  trunks  of  the  trees  and  the 
green  lichen-covered  slates  of  the  convent.  The  warm 


238  Vocations 

creamy  wash  of  the  stuccoed  walls  glowed  in  the  slanting 
light.  It  was  what  she  was  going  back  to  behind  the  walls 
that  gave  her  this  empty  ache  in  her  breast  and  made  her 
limbs  like  lead.  .  .  .  She  had  entered  when  she  had  thought 
herself  dead;  and  now  that  she  had  come  to  life  in  the 
tomb  ...  she  had  bound  herself  to  stay  there  for  life. 
People  who  were  buried  alive  lived  only  a  few  hours,  but 
she  might  live  for  years  and  years.  .  .  . 

She  laughed  a  little  shrilly. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  Reverend  Mother  asked. 

"Just  a  funny  thought,"  Kitty  said  bitterly. 

Perhaps  one  day  she  should  be  able  to  forget,  like  Rev- 
erend Mother,  who  had  already  forgotten  that  she  had 
asked  a  question.  .  .  .  She  should  begin  to  forget,  perhaps, 
when  she  was  fifty — nearly  thirty  years  more.  People  lived 
ages  in  prison  .  .  .  that  old  man  in  the  Chateau  d'lf 
...  the  prisoner  of  Chillon. 

She  stopped,  thrilled  with  hope.  Prisoners  escaped 
sometimes.  She  hugged  the  thought  for  a  moment  and  re- 
jected it  painfully  and  reluctantly.  They  were  in  bonds  to 
men,  but  she  was  bound  to  God  ...  by  God.  .  .  . 

She  stared  at  Reverend  Mother's  back,  a  bewildered  look 
on  her  face.  It  was  a  dreadful  thought  ...  yet  it  seemed 
as  if  God  had  dealt  unfairly  with  her.  When  she  was  trod- 
den down,  broken,  weak,  obsessed  by  fear,  He  had  exacted 
a  promise  from  her.  Then,  having  bound  her  in  chains  for 
life,  He  freed  her  soul  from  temptation ;  and,  as  if  to  mock 
her,  gave  her  the  power  to  see  and  feel  the  beauty  of  the 
world.  He  couldn't  have  done  it.  He  couldn't  be  so  cruel 
.  .  .  the  same  God  who  had  given  her  these  new  feelings. 
Yesterday  she  was  a  withered  branch :  to-day  she  was  like 
that  flowering  myrtle,  bursting  into  life.  The  convent,  and 
everything  that  bound  her  to  it,  were  only  a  horrid  dream 
that  menaced  but  could  not  hurt  this  new  life,  which  was 
in  every  breath  she  drew,  in  her  blood,  in  the  exultant 
freedom  of  her  limbs.  There  must  be  some  explanation, 
same  way  out.  God  could  not  at  once  have  made  her  bond 
and  free. 


Vocations  239 

With  a  light  step  she  followed  Reverend  Mother  through 
the  front  entrance. 

"We'll  have  to  go  up,  I  suppose,"  Reverend  Mother  said 
dolefully,  as  Kitty  helped  her  to  change  into  her  house 
shoes  in  the  cloak-room.  "They  moider  one  so  with  their 
chatter." 

So  at  seventy  Reverend  Mother  still  felt  this  ...  fifty 
years  more  of  it  ...  and  Reverend  Mother  was  spared  the 
worst.  A  reaction  set  in  with  Kitty.  Little  things  irritated 
her;  the  fastening  of  her  shoe,  the  long  rows  of  shawls  and 
wraps.  She  felt  suffocated  in  the  dim  cloak-room,  and  the 
hard  brightness  of  the  corridor,  shining  with  beeswax,  gave 
her  no  relief  .  .  .  All  her  life  she'd  be  half  suffocated  by  the 
smell  of  beeswax.  On  the  stairs  she  shuddered  at  the  shrill 
notes  of  Sister  Luke's  cracked  soprano. 

"Some  one  ought  to  stop  her,"  she  said. 

"Eh,  eh!"  Reverend  Mother  said  vaguely.  "Oh,  Sister 
Luke !  It  pierces  even  through  the  oak  door.  She's  worse, 
though,  in  'Who  is  Sylvia?' " 

"We'll  have  that,  too,"  Kitty  said  in  despair. 

"Let  us  hope  it's  over,"  Reverend  Mother  sighed.  "Dear 
Luke  is  just  a  little  acid.  Even  Michael  hasn't  the  courage 
to  give  her  a  hint." 

They  waited  outside  the  Community  Room  door  till  the 
last  falsetto  note  was  smothered  in  applause. 

There  was  a  hum  of  excitement  when  Reverend  Mother 
entered.  Her  most  devoted  supporters  ran  forward  to 
greet  her.  One  got  her  chair,  another  her  cushion,  a  third 
held  her  footstool  ready,  while  several  nuns  loaded  the 
small  table  beside  her  chair  with  plates  of  fruit,  sweets 
and  cakes.  The  followers  of  Sister  Eulalie  looked  at  one 
another,  shrugged  and  smiled. 

"You  missed  both  my  songs,  dearest  Reverend  Mother," 
Sister  Luke  reproached  her. 

"We  heard  wonderfully  through  the  door.  Didn't  we, 
Sister  Catherine?"  Reverend  Mother  said,  making  a  ner- 
vous dive  for  her  beads. 

"Wonderfully,"  Kitty  echoed. 


240  Vocations 

"I  was  always  told  what  a  loss  I  was  to  the  operatic 
stage,"  Sister  Luke  said  complacently. 

Winnie  said,  "You  haven't  spoken  to  me,  dear  Reverend 
Mother.  I'm  so  happy.  I  feel  a  real  nun  at  last." 

"That's  good.  That's  good,"  Reverend  Mother  said 
wearily.  Then,  with  a  happy  thought  she  added,  "Help  the 
novices  to  more  sweets." 

"But,  dearest  Reverend  Mother,  I  want  to  tell  you 
about  my  feelings,"  Winnie  said  discontentedly.  "And 
they've  stuffed  themselves  already."  ' 

"Then  stuff  them  some  more,"  Reverend  Mother  said 
gloomily,  moving  away,  her  hand  on  Kitty's  arm.  "For 
God's  sake,  sing  something,  child,"  she  whispered.  "Some- 
thing that  will  last  ten  minutes — till  the  office  bell  rings." 

"Just  a  word,  dearest  Reverend  Mother — not  more  than 
five  minutes,"  Sister  Anne  said,  rushing  forward.  "Some- 
thing very  droll." 

"Sister  Catherine  is  going  to  sing  to  us.  Another  time, 
another  time."  Reverend  Mother  escaped  to  her  chair. 

Kitty  made  her  way  to  the  piano,  more  anxious  than 
Reverend  Mother  to  escape  the  cackle.  "How  are  you 
feeling,  dear?"  in  a  sentimental  whisper  from  Mother 
Calixta,  almost  made  her  cry.  She  bit  the  inside  of  her 
lip  in  an  effort  to  restrain  her  tears  and  steady  herself.  She 
smiled  bitterly  at  a  novice's  whispered  comment : 

"Old  prim  Catherine  is  giving  herself  the  airs  of  a 
Mother  already." 

"Anything  with  four  verses,"  she  said  numbly  in  reply 
to  the  yawning  "Well?"  of  Sister  Columbanus,  seated  at 
the  piano. 

She  stood  by  the  side  of  the  piano,  facing  the  room, 
according  to  rule.  Her  own  voice  and  the  piano  sounded 
vaguely  from  afar.  Several  processes  seemed  to  go  on  si- 
multaneously in  her  mind:  she  was  singing  in  the  church 
choir,  and  George  Lynch  was  listening  with  critical  ap- 
proval ;  she  was  drifting  down  the  river  in  the  shadow  of 
the  beech  trees ;  she  was  back  in  St.  Margaret's  impressing 
her  determination  never  to  be  a  nun  on  Bessie  Sweetman; 


Vocations  241 

she  was  watching,  with  close  attention,  the  roomful  of  nuns 
in  front  of  her.  Were  they  happy  or  unhappy?  Some 
were  and  some  weren't.  One  couldn't  judge  of  those  like 
Mother  Michael  and  Sister  Thomasine  who  regarded  the 
convent  as  a  home  and  a  business,  who  prayed  or  cut  up 
meat  or  taught  geography  as  her  mother  weighed  tea  and 
sugar.  All  that  one  could  say  of  them  was  that  they  were 
interested  in  their  work  and  in  the  daily  gossip.  The  re- 
ligious nuns,  with  the  exception  of  Reverend  Mother  and 
one  or  two  like  her  in  temperament,  were  the  most  un- 
happy :  God  seemed  to  torture  those  who  tried  to  love  Him. 
The  happiest  of  all,  at  least  on  the  surface,  were  those  like 
Eulalie  and  Winnie  who  lived  in  a  world  of  their  own, 
made  up  of  a  sentimental  God,  plaster  saints,  silly  priests 
and  sillier  nuns.  There  was  a  small  group,  of  whom 
Calixta  was  one,  who  seemed  able  to  combine  diluted  mix- 
tures of  Reverend  Mother's  religion  and  Sister  Eulalie's 
sentimentality.  And  there  were  others,  who  hardly  made 
a  group,  each  was  so  individualized,  whose  only  bond  was 
the  look  of  pain  or  bewilderment  they  habitually  wore.  .  .  . 

To  which  lot  did  she  herself  belong?  She  hadn't  Rev- 
erend Mother's  sane  nor  Sister  Evangelist's  tortured  sense 
of  religion ;  nor  Michael's  faculty  of  treating  God  as  one  of 
the  daily  tasks ;  nor  Eulalie's  power  of  illusion.  She  must 
be  one  of  the  dazed  lot,  like  Bernard,  who  was  now  staring 
out  of  the  window  at  the  westering  sun  with  pain  and  hope- 
lessness in  her  strained,  longing  eyes.  .  .  . 

"Will  you  sing  the  last  verse?  There's  only  two  minutes 
and  no  one  is  listening,"  Columbanus  asked  dryly. 

Kitty  nodded  "Yes"  with  a  smile  at  Reverend  Mother, 
who,  with  eyes  shut,  was  inflicting  silence  on  the  nuns 
nearest  to  her.  Sister  Euphemia,  who  was  stone  deaf,  was 
listening  intently,  her  finger  to  her  ear.  Novices  were 
munching  cakes  and  sweets,  giggling  and  whispering.  Sis- 
ter Luke  was  criticizing  the  singer  adversely  in  a  shrill, 
high-piped  voice.  Sister  Thomasine  was  reading  a  book 
in  a  corner.  Winnie  was  moving  about  from  group  to 
group  with  a  huge  box  of  marrons  glaces,  explaining  loudly 


242  Vocations 

to  everyone  how  happy  she  was.  Sister  Eulalie's  support- 
ers, massed  around  her,  divided  the  room  into  two  almost 
equal  camps  .  .  .  Reverend  Mother's  stalwarts  having  all 
edged  towards  their  centre  of  attraction. 

A  bell  rang.  Kitty  stopped  short  on  a  high  note.  Rev- 
erend Mother  stood  up  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  Sister  Colum- 
banus  shut  the  piano  with  a  bang. 

The  sound  woke  Kitty  thoroughly.  All  her  illusions 
seemed  to  fall  from  her  with  the  sharp  thud  of  the  lid  of 
the  piano.  She  felt  alone  amid  all  the  hurrying  nuns.  It 
was  a  desperate  thing  to  know  on  the  very  day  of  her 
profession  that  she  had  made  a  mistake.  But  she  knew, 
and  she  knew  why.  She  looked  with  a  pitiful  smile  at 
Mother  Michael,  who  was  carefully  superintending  the  put- 
ting away  of  the  remnants  of  the  feast.  Michael,  who 
would  have  least  sympathy  with  her,  would  understand  her 
best.  She  must  be  as  straight  and  unsentimental  with  her- 
self as  Michael  was  with  the  convent  accounts. 

It  was  curious  how  she  felt.  She  tried  to  read  the  secret 
in  the  backs  of  the  nuns  as  she  followed  them  to  the  chapel 
for  Office.  The  overwhelming  feeling  of  life  and  joy  that 
she  had  felt  for  the  last  six  or  seven  hours  had  changed 
into  something  stronger  and  deeper.  It  was  no  longer  a 
vague  feeling  that  made  her  fanciful,  but  a  hard  fact  that 
she  had  to  face. 

She  opened  her  Office  book,  joined  in  the  movements  of 
the  nuns,  made  responses,  but  there  was  no  interruption 
in  her  thought.  It  was  foolish,  perhaps,  to  fall  in  love  with 
a  man  because  he  looked  at  her.  But  there  it  was.  It  had 
always  been  like  that:  with  the  painting  master,  but  that 
was  nothing  and  had  passed  quickly;  with  Dr.  Thornton — 
who  hadn't  even  looked  at  her.  That  was  horrid,  but  this 
was  different.  Instead  of  almost  driving  her  to  despair 
it  gave  her  courage.  Courage  for  what? 

She  held  her  breath  and  could  hear  her  heart  beat.  She 
was  a  nun  now  and  must  never  love  a  man  again.  She 
waited,  as  if  to  hear  some  confirmation  of  this,  but  none 
came.  She  was  a  nun,  but  she  did  love  a  man.  .  .  . 


Vocations  243 

She  ought  to  be  afraid  of  God  for  having  broken  her 
vow,  but  she  wasn't;  and  He  ought  to  be  angry  with  her, 
but  He  didn't  seem  to  be.  Even  if  He  were  angry  she 
couldn't  say  she  was  sorry,  because  she  wasn't  sorry,  she 
was  glad.  She  could  now  even  pray,  which  she  could  never 
do  when  she  had  fought  against  love.  And  she  had  none 
of  those  horrid  temptations  which  always  came  when  she 
tried  to  put  the  thought  of  love  away.  She  wished  she  was 
clever  and  could  understand.  Father  Brady  seemed  to 
know,  but  she  hadn't  listened  to  him.  Father  Bernardine 
and  Mother  Calixta  were  only  echoes  of  spiritual  books, 
and  her  own  experience  flatly  contradicted  them. 

The  monotonous  chant  of  the  Office  gave  her  a  delicious 
sense  of  rest.  The  measured  rise  and  fall  of  the  thin  voices 
made  the  garish  chapel  austere.  Reverend  Mother  had 
advised  her  to  lose  herself  in  God.  To-night,  she  felt  in 
harmony  with  Him.  Love  and  hope  drew  her  close  to  Him. 
She  knew  she  was  in  complete  accord  with  His  will.  Yet 
Reverend  Mother  had  meant  something  entirely  different: 
that  it  was  only  by  emptying  her  heart  of  human  love  she 
could  be  one  with  God.  But  this  was  the  opposite  of  the 
the  truth.  So  far  as  she  could  be  sure  of  anything  she  was 
sure  that  Reverend  Mother  was  wrong. 

Where  was  all  this  leading  her  to?  All  her  life  she  had 
craved  for  love.  In  the  shock  and  misery  of  a  disappoint- 
ment she  had  sought  peace  where  there  was  no  peace.  In 
her  madness  she  had  promised  the  impossible.  Almost  at 
the  moment  in  which  she  tried  to  deny  she  was  a  woman 
nature  had  reasserted  itself.  Sexless  women  might  make 
good  nuns.  .  .  .  Even  she  could  go  on  trying  to  live  as  a 
nun  with  her  heart  and  her  judgment  pulling  against  her. 
.  .  .  She  might  forget  like  Reverend  Mother,  or  go  mad 
like  Basil,  or  live  in  misery  like  Bernard.  .  .  .  But  she 
couldn't  philander — madness,  rather  than  that.  She'd  get 
out  of  the  church  choir  somehow.  ...  As  long  as  she  wore 
a  veil  she'd  avoid  him.  .  .  ,.. 

There  was  a  shuffling  of  books  and  a  banging  of  stall 
seats.  She  held  her  hand  to  her  panting  heart.  A  feeling 


244  Vocations 

of  suffocation  gave  way  to  one  of  intense  relief.  .  .  .  She 
could  leave  the  convent.  .  .  .  God  wouldn't  hold  her  to  a 
promise  she  made  in  ignorance.  .  .  . 

Her  heart  fluttered  timidly.  With  a  shy  blush  she  joined 
the  nuns  who  were  leaving  the  chapel.  It  would  be  so  won- 
derful meeting  him  out  in  the  world  where  one  could 
breathe.  .  .  .  The  convent  looked  so  friendly  now.  Even 
dour  Sister  Thomasine  was  smiling  at  her.  .  .  .  She 
clasped  her  hands  under  her  veil  to  preserve  her  secret 
which  every  glance  seemed  to  threaten. 

"Look  over  the  sixth  class  geography.  You're  coming  to 
me  to-morrow,"  the  old  nun  said  gruffly. 

"How  jolly !"  Kitty  said,  smiling  inanely. 

She  hurried  away,  clutching  her  happiness  to  her  heart. 

The  old  nun  stared  moodily  after  her  and  muttered : 

"I  hope  the  black  veil  isn't  turning  her  into  a  fool." 


Chapter  16 

WINNIE  sat  on  the  end  of  her  bed  listening  in- 
tently. When  the  sounds  had  almost  ceased, 
but  not  quite,  would  be  the  best  time.  They 
were  fewer  now  but  appallingly  loud  and 
menacing.  The  banging  of  a  door  made  her  heart  jump 
to  her  mouth;  a  creak  made  her  blood  run  cold.  A  foot- 
fall lengthened  out  till  it  seemed  to  reverberate  all  along 
the  corridor.  The  watch  in  her  hand  ticked  quickly,  but  the 
hands  took  ages  to  go  round.  At  ten  minutes  to  ten  she'd 
start — five  minutes  more.  Time  would  have  passed  faster 
if  she  had  not  begun  the  rosary  for  Muredach's  intention 
so  soon.  And  it  was  too  late  now  to  begin  the  rosary  she 
had  promised  Sister  Euphemia.  It  wasn't  even  worth  while 
to  begin  darning  her  stockings.  She  had  planned  every- 
thing out  so  carefully — there  was  no  reason  to  be  afraid. 
Blessed  Joan  of  Arc  had  no  fear  of  the  dreadful  noises  of 
battle;  and  the  Cure  d'Ars  was  calm  when  the  devil,  in 
the  shape  of  a  mad  bull,  raged  about  his  house  smashing 
the  furniture.  There  was  nothing  to-night  beyond  the 
ordinary  sounds  she  had  heard,  almost  without  noticing 
them,  hundreds  of  times — nothing  at  all  to  worry  about. 
In  fact,  everything  had  been  providential :  Muredach  get- 
ting a  headache — no  wonder,  and  all  the  sweets  she  ate — 
and  herself  breaking  off  the  arrangements  after  lights  out : 
Mother  Calixta  giving  her  an  extra  long  sleep  in  the  morn- 
ing. She  wasn't  really  afraid.  Her  guardian  angel  might 
be  a  bit  fussy  over  her  breaking  so  big  a  rule,  but  she'd 
make  it  up  with  him  again.  One  Hail  Mary  and  she'd 
start,  in  the  name  of  God,  and  trust  to  the  Divine  protec- 
tion. But  first  she  must  rumple  her  bed — some  one  might 
come  in.  It  would  appear  as  if  she  had  gone  out  of  the 
room  for  a  few  minutes. 

245 


246  Vocations 

She  murmured  a  Hail  Mary  as  she  threw  back  the  clothes. 
A  sudden  shock  of  memory  made  her  stand  erect  with  a 
blanched  face.  Tears  welled  in  her  eyes  and  she  trembled 
with  emotion.  Her  hair!  If  it  had  only  been  last  night 
or  any  other  night,  she  thought  despairingly,  wringing  her 
hands.  But  she  had  given  it  up  to  God;  and  she  mustn't 
spoil  a  perfect  gift  by  her  regrets.  She  rushed  distractedly 
to  a  drawer,  feverishly  uncovered  a  hand  mirror  and  laid 
it  on  the  bed.  Unloosening  her  veil  and  guimpe  she  ex- 
posed her  hair,  took  up  the  mirror  nervously,  screwed  round 
her  head  to  get  the  best  reflection,  muttered  a  horrified 
"Oh !"  Her  hair  that  had  been  finer  than  the  Magdalen's, 
more  beautiful  than  an  angel's  aureole !  God  had  never  got 
such  a  gift  before.  She  looked  again,  held  the*  mirror 
farther  away,  and  screwed  her  head  to  a  new  angle.  Her 
face  became  more  composed.  It  was  different,  of  course, 
and  nothing  to  what  it  was,  but,  thank  God,  in  the  hurry 
they  had  not  cut  much  of  it.  In  fact,  her  face  had  a  new 
attraction.  As  a  child  she  had  worn  her  hair  bobbed  like 
that,  and  it  had  been  much  admired.  God  was  very  good 
to  her.  Her  eyes  fell  on  her  watch.  Nine  minutes  to  ten. 
She  worked  feverishly  and  in  two  minutes  was  holding  the 
handle  of  the  door,  a  strained  look  on  her  face.  She  must 
be  natural.  She  steadied  herself,  stepped  out,  looked  up 
and  down  the  corridor,  went  back  to  her  room,  put  out  the 
light,  shut  the  door  of  her  room  noiselessly  behind  her, 
and  walked  boldly  towards  the  stairhead.  The  lights  would 
be  on  for  at  least  seven  minutes  yet.  With  luck  she  wouldn't 
meet  anyone.  They'd  probably  take  no  notice  in  any  case, 
and  if  they  did  she  could  easily  explain. 

She  sighed  with  relief  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  God  was 
good  to  her — the  lights  in  the  lower  corridor  were  out.  Once 
she  got  beyond  the  bend  of  the  stairs  she'd  be  quite  safe. 
She  muttered  an  ejaculatory  prayer  and  stepped  cautiously 
over  the  second  step  which  often  cracked.  Thank  God,  it 
didn't  creak,  and  no  one  could  hear  her  now  in  her  light- 
est house  shoes.  She  fingered  her  beads,  murmuring  a  prayer 
of  thanksgiving.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  she  leant  against 


Vocations  247 

the  newel-post  to  steady  her  nerves.  Once  she  used  to  be 
so  timid,  but  she  knew  now  that  the  devil  could  not  hurt 
her,  with  such  a  pure  love  in  her  heart.  Father  James 
had  explained  it  all  so  beautifully.  Not  even  a  ghost  could 
harm  her. 

She  groped  in  the  half-light  to  the  cloak-room.  It  was 
so  dark  inside,  but  she  wasn't  afraid.  Her  shawl  was  on 
the  first  peg.  Yes,  there  it  was.  But  she'd  have  to  wait  till 
the  lights  of  the  corridors  above  were  put  out.  It  was 
God's  will  that  her  cell  was  on  the  first  floor — it  would 
have  been  so  much  more  difficult  to  get  down  safely  from 
the  top  floor.  If  anyone  came  now  she  could  hide  behind 
the  pile  of  chairs  at  the  back.  She'd  say  the  rosary  for 
Sister  Euphemia's  intention  while  she  waited.  Love  was 
so  wonderful  for  driving  out  fear  .  .  .  not  entirely,  but 
it  almost  did.  The  Scriptures  said  it.  The  faint  light  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs  was  a  great  comfort.  Suddenly  her 
teeth  chattered  and  the  beads  shook  in  her  fingers.  That 
awful  sound  was  only  the  Sister  putting  out  the  lights. 
She  mustn't  stir  yet  till  all  was  quiet. 

She  shut  her  eyes  and  prayed.  He'd  be  waiting  at  the 
presbytery  gate.  It  was  all  so  wonderful.  He'd  give  up 
promotion  for  her  sake.  It  was  wicked  of  Kitty  to  throw 
doubts  on  him.  Kitty  was  jealous  .  .  .  that  was  it.  Sin 
was  a  dreadful  thing  and  deserved  eternal  punishment.  But 
things  that  were  sins  for  some  people  weren't  sins  for 
others.  The  spiritual  bond  between  him  and  her  was  purer 
and  holier  than  marriage.  It  purified  everything  and  made 
things  that  seemed  coarse,  beautiful.  And  to-night  it  was 
to  be  more  wonderful  and  beautiful  than  ever. 

How  still  it  was,  and  how  dark.  She  groped  her  way  to 
the  door,  her  heart  beating  fast.  It  seemed  darker  than 
when  she  had  shut  her  eyes.  She  blinked  at  the  window 
which  she  knew  was  opposite.  There  was  a  star,  several 
stars.  It  was  being  false  to  feel  afraid.  Love  was  cour- 
age. It  wasn't  quite  so  dark  now.  By  crossing  over  she 
could  grope  from  window  to  window.  It  was  such  a 
ghostly,  grey  darkness.  The  main  entrance  door  was  the 


248  Vocations 

nearest,  but  it  wouldn't  be  safe.  Besides,  the  key  was  usually 
taken  away.  The  key  was  never  removed  from  the  inside 
of  the  sacristy  door.  And  there  was  no  danger  that  a 
creaking  door  or  her  footsteps  on  the  gravel  would  be  heard 
in  the  cells  from  the  chapel  side. 

The  cool  iron  knob  of  the  door  leading  to  the  chapel  gave 
her  a  sense  of  relief.  Once  that  was  open  and  shut  she 
should  be  safe.  It  was  miraculous  that  she  had  never  once 
knocked  against  a  picture.  Her  guardian  angel  hadn't  de- 
serted her  after  all.  If  she  had  only  had  the  chance  to  test 
the  hinges  before  supper.  She  must  only  risk  it  and  pray. 
The  knob  turned  and  the  door  opened  and  shut  almost 
without  a  sound.  She  hardly  deserved  her  luck  her  faith 
was  so  weak.  She  fell  on  her  knees  and  prostrated  herself 
in  thanksgiving.  The  little  red  light  in  the  sanctuary  was 
so  comforting  after  the  darkness  of  the  corridor.  It  was 
as  if  God  Himself  was  smiling  on  her.  To-morrow,  when 
she  had  more  time,  she'd  thank  Him  properly.  It  must  be 
long  after  half-past  ten — it  had  seemed  an  age  in  the  cor- 
ridor— and  she  had  promised  to  be  at  the  presbytery  gate 
by  then.  She  prostrated  herself  again  as  she  passed  the 
high  altar,  opened  the  sacristy  door  with  a  sigh  of  expecta- 
tion, and  stood  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold,  her  heart 
beating  fast,  blood  mounting  to  her  cheeks.  He  was  so 
much  a  part  of  the  sacristy  to  her  that  by  shutting  her  eyes 
she  could  feel  his  arms  pressing  her  to  his  breast,  and 
smell  eau-de-Cologne,  his  favorite  scent.  Trembling,  she 
lit  a  match.  The  white  face  of  the  clock  stared  at  her — 
twenty-five  past  ten.  It  had  seemed  countless  years.  She 
must  hurry.  She  mustn't  give  way  to  foolish  fancies  with 
such  wonders  awaiting  her.  The  flame  caught  her  fingers, 
and  she  dropped  the  match.  No  matter,  she  could  find  the 
door  easily  now.  But  it  would  never  do  to  leave  the  match 
on  the  floor.  She  groped  with  her  open  hand  on  the  polished 
parquet  and  found  the  unburnt  wood  and,  near  it,  the 
charred  tip.  She  stood,  undecided,  and  felt  with  her  hands. 
The  loud,  measured  ticking  of  the  dreadful  clock  was  threat- 
ening her  with  disaster.  The  darkness  was  alive  and  threat- 


Vocations  249 

ening.  Her  legs  shook.  She  must  either  sink  on  the  floor, 
or  run  for  her  life.  She  told  herself  that  she  was  too  weak 
to  move;  but  she  rushed  blindly  towards  what  she  thought 
was  the  door  and  stumbled  against  a  press.  The  cool, 
polished  wood  steadied  her  a  little.  She  moved  her  hand 
along  the  top.  It  was  the  big  vestment  press.  She  mustn't 
be  afraid.  There  was  nothing  to  be  afraid  of.  She  held 
on  to  the  bevelled  edge  with  twitching  fingers.  Her  lips 
felt  dry  and  cold,  and  her  cheeks  drawn,  as  if  they  were 
about  to  crack.  She'd  never  get  there.  And  he  was  wait- 
ing for  her.  He  had  often  leant  against  this  press,  his  elbows 
resting  on  it.  In  this  very  spot  he  had  often  kissed  her. 
The  blood  came  back  to  her  cheeks.  Her  hands  suddenly 
became  hot.  She  pressed  them  and  her  hot  face  against  the 
wood.  The  clock,  striking  half-past  ten,  made  her  jump 
with  terror.  But  when  she  realized  it  was  the  clock  she 
grew  calmer.  She  knew  her  way  now.  She  could  find  the 
matches  if  she  wished,  but  she  didn't  need  them. 

She  groped  her  way  towards  the  door  leading  to  the  back 
sacristy.  Three  short  steps  and  she  should  be  at  the  outer 
door.  Her  hand  found  the  key  at  the  first  effort.  She 
sighed  contentedly  as  she  arranged  the  bolt  so  that  she 
could  open  the  door  from  the  outside.  She  stood  for  a 
few  seconds  on  the  doorstep.  It  was  so  bright  after  the 
shuttered  sacristy.  Anyone  could  see  her.  But  the  gate- 
keeper always  went  to  bed  at  nine,  and  this  was  the  blind 
side  of  the  convent.  She  moved  forward  quickly,  then 
stopped  abruptly.  The  crunching  of  her  thin  shoes  on  the 
gravel  was  like  a  blare  of  trumpets.  What  a  fool  she  was 
— no  one  could  hear.  She  walked  on  tiptoe.  The  rough 
gravel  hurt  her  feet.  What  queer  shapes  things  had.  What 
awful  black  thing  was  that?  It  was  only  the  cedar  tree; 
and  once  past  it  she'd  be  at  the  top  of  the  juniper  walk. 
What  a  black  chasm  it  looked  .  .  .  but  the  stars  would  pro- 
tect her.  They  were  smiling  on  her,  blessing  her.  She  shut 
her  eyes  and  ran.  The  thumping  of  her  heart  and  the  in- 
tolerable anguish  of  the  sharp  gravel  piercing  her  feet 
through  her  thin  shoes,  only  made  her  run  the  faster.  She 


250  Vocations 

must  escape  this  black  terror.  Her  shawl  fell  loose.  It  was 
like  some  horrid  monster  hissing  along  the  gravel  behind 
her,  yet  if  she  let  it  go  she  was  lost.  She  prayed  to  the 
Blessed  Virgin  and  all  the  saints  to  protect  her.  Only  by 
God's  aid  could  she  avoid  rushing  into  the  hedge,  yet  she 
couldn't  stop.  What  had  happened?  She  slackened  her 
pace.  She  was  no  longer  going  downhill.  She  must  be 
there.  She  stopped  abruptly  and  peered  round  anxiously. 
Her  thumping  heart  almost  ceased  beating.  It  was  the 
mercy  of  God  that  saved  her.  Another  step  and  she'd  have 
been  on  the  railings.  She  was  bathed  in  a  cold  sweat.  Her 
limbs  shook  and  every  nerve  vibrated.  Her  heart  beat  more 
loudly  than  the  ticking  of  the  church  clock.  The  Blessed 
Virgin  had  protected  her.  Pantingly  she  muttered  a  prayer 
of  thanks.  But  she  mustn't  delay.  Nothing  could  happen 
to  her  coming  to  him.  She  searched  for  her  handkerchief, 
dried  her  face  and  her  wet  hands,  and  looked  around  to 
take  her  bearing.  God  be  praised  for  making  the  stars  shine 
so  bright.  She  walked  back  slowly,  bowed  reverentially  as 
she  passed  the  front  door  of  the  church.  She  couldn't  be 
so  very  late,  after  all,  she  had  run  so  quickly.  How  her 
feet  pained  her  .  .  .  but  that  didn't  matter.  She  must 
steady  her  breathing.  What  would  it  all  be  like?  It  had 
been  so  easy  coming,  after  all.  It  was  as  if  she  was  walk- 
ing on  air  she  felt  so  happy.  There  was  the  white  gate. 

"Winnie !"  came  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  with  a  deep  breath. 

She  clung  to  him  and  kissed  his  lips  again  and  again. 

"Happy?"  he  said  lightly. 

"In  heaven,"   she  murmured. 

Father  Brady's  brother  died  at  half-past  three.  At  four 
o'clock  the  old  priest  was  walking  in  to  Drumbawn,  read- 
ing his  Office.  He'd  have  a  few  hours'  rest,  arrange  with 
one  of  the  Dominicans  to  supply  his  Mass  in  the  church, 
and  come  back  and  say  Mass  at  Deelish  at  eight  o'clock, 
or  so.  These  details  ran,  through  his  mind  over  and  over 
again.  He  shut  his  breviary  with  a  sigh.  God  deserved  more 


Vocations  251 

than  his  second  best,  and  He  couldn't  give  Him  more  with 
all  these  distractions  running  in  his  head.  Poor  Tom  had 
lived  honestly  and  had  gone  to  his  God.  He  was  a  bit  peevish 
at  the  end,  but  that  was  the  pain.  They  had  bickered  every 
day  they  ever  met;  still,  there  was  never  such  a  friend 
born.  .  .  .  And  the  world  went  on  just  the  same.  A  man 
dropped  out  and  another  took  up  the  spade.  It  looked  sad 
enough  in  the  bleak  dawn  when  Tom  was  breathing  his 
last;  but  here  were  the  birds  singing  now  and  the  glitter 
on  the  hedges,  and  the  flushed,  laughing  sky  as  if  there 
was  nothing  but  joy  in  the  world.  And  how  else  could  it 
be  and  God  above  it  all,  only  that  men  were  so  perverse, 
running  after  this  and  that?  It  was  a  queer  world,  Church 
and  all,  and  God  had  His  work  cut  out  for  Him  to  manage 
it  all.  There  was  the  bishop  now  sending  Burke  to  Lissa- 
kelly.  But  who  was  he  to  throw  stones  at  Burke  or  the 
bishop?  He  had  spent  his  own  life  trapesing  round  Drum- 
bawn,  and  sorra  much  more  he  had  done  than  to  wear  out 
his  shoes.  Still,  it  might  be  worse  with  a  man  like  Burke. 
He  had  nothing  much  agin  him  .  .  .  but  there  he  was.  The 
fellow  wasn't  wholesome  somehow.  .  .  .  Well,  well,  when 
his  own  time  came  he  hoped  he'd  have  as  peaceful  an  end 
as  poor  Tom.  And  who  knew  but  the  bishop'd  have  sense 
for  once  and  give  the  parish  to  Dunne?  Dunne  might  be 
a  bit  hard  on  women,  but  what  of  that?  It  was  safest 
in  the  end  to  give  the  poor,  misguided  creatures  a  wide 
berth.  .  .  .  Nuns,  too  .  .  .  for  what  were  they  but  flesh 
and  blood  in  a  veil  and  guimpe,  instead  of  a  hat  and 
feathers?  Poor  Tom!  No  doubt  he  could  read  all  the 
riddles  by  now.  No  man  grew  better  crops  or  turned  out 
a  better  beast  to  market.  He  did  his  day's  work  and 
went  to  his  rest.  Could  more  be  said  of  any  man? 

He  opened  his  breviary  again  and  began  to  read.  He 
knew  the  accustomed  words  by  heart.  His  lips  moved  in 
prayer;  but  his  eyes  wandered  over  fields  swelling  green 
with  corn  and  grass  between  hedges  white  with  hawthorn, 
while  the  shrill  beauty  of  soaring  larks  woke  all  sorts  of 
vague  thoughts  and  memories:  quarrels  with  Tom  as  a 


252  Vocations 

child,  his  ordination,  the  profession  yesterday.  .  .  .  God 
was  like  this,  full  of  the  freedom  and  freshness  of  a  spring 
morning  and  made  men  to  His  own  image ;  but  they  were 
always  making  a  hash  of  themselves  and  of  one  another. 
Nothing'd  satisfy  them  till  they  made  God  into  a  sort  of 
mixture  of  a  fool  and  a  tyrant  like  themselves.  There  was 
Johanna  Curtin  driving  them  two  innocent  young  girls  into 
a  convent,  and  thinking  she  was  pleasing  God  by  it,  too.  But 
was  she  to  blame  after  all  when  it  was  the  Church  put  it 
into  her  head?  It  wasn't  for  him  to  question  the  wisdom 
of  the  Church,  though  often  it  was  hard  to  see  it.  ...  He 
hadn't  much  of  a  bent  that  way  himself,  thank  God,  but  he 
wouldn't  like  to  have  his  life  before  him  again  and  go 
through  the  struggle  he  had  to  make  to  keep  his  vow  of 
celibacy.  It  was  hard  enough  when  it  was  your  own  free 
choice.  But  them  young  girls  weren't  free;  not  one  in 
twenty  of  'em.  Fellows  like  Burke  and  the  bishop  painting 
the  life  in  the  colours  of  the  rainbow.  .  .  .  It's  little  they 
bothered  about  the  strength  or  weakness  of  human  nature. 
It  was  a  queer  kind  of  vanity,  glory  be  to  God,  to  be  pre- 
tending that  black  was  white.  Celibacy  came  easy  enough 
to  a  few;  and  a  good  many  more  strove  as  best  they  could. 
But  what  about  the  rest — the  half  of  them  or  more?  Decent 
men  and  women,  too,  many  of  'em  to  start  with,  but  caught 
,up  in  a  net  from  which  they  couldn't  escape  .  .  .  con- 
demned to  misery  and  pretence  and  hypocrisy  .  .  .  and  all 
the  harm  they  were  doing.  .  .  .  Well,  well,  it  wasn't  for 
him  to  judge.  He  had  his  own  sins  to  account  for,  and 
heavy  enough  they  were.  Though,  thank  God,  he  had 
never  advised  a  young  girl  to  become  a  nun  or  a  boy  a  priest. 
What  was  Tom  thinking  of  it  all  now?  It  was  hard  to 
know  anything  on  this  earth.  .  .  . 

He  leant  heavily  on  the  umbrella  as  he  descended  the 
steep  hill  past  the  convent,  and  stared  moodily  down  the 
empty  street.  He  knew  every  man,  woman  and  child  be- 
hind all  them  dead  walls,  everything  about  them  except  the 
things  that  mattered.  Once  in  a  way  he  could  help  one  of 
them  by  agreeing  with  them  or  not  meddling,  and  that  was 


Vocations  253 

about  all.     But  even  then  he  wasn't  sure  whether  he  did 
right  or  wrong.  .   .   . 

There  he  was  thinking  of  other  things  when  he  ought  to 
be  saying  his  prayers.  He'd  have  to  go  back  on  his  Office 
and  say  it  again.  He  put  his  breviary  under  his  arm, 
watched  a  salmon  rise  and  the  eddies  die  away,  as  he  turned 
down  by  the  river.  He  yawned  as  he  unlocked  the  side  gate 
opening  into  the  churchyard.  He'd  throw  himself  on  the 
bed  for  a  few  hours  first  and  then  arrange  about  the  Mass. 
He  stood  and  frowned  at  the  draggled  shrubs.  He'd  have 
to  get  them  trimmed.  The  Portugal  laurel  was  the  worst. 
And  the  nuns  kept  their  walk  in  such  great  order,  too.  He 
moved  a  few  paces  and  followed  the  trim  lines  of  the 
juniper  hedges  with  an  absent-minded  glance.  He  had 
moved  away  a  few  steps  when  he  remembered  something  he 
had  seen.  He  turned  back  and  peered  closely  up  the  graveled 
path.  Ah,  he 'was  right!  There  was  something.  A  black  bun- 
dle of  some  sort,  about  half-way  up,  on  the  grass  in  the 
shadow  of  the  hedge.  He'd  let  it  be — something  the  nuns 
dropped,  no  doubt.  He  looked  at  it  again  and  it  seemed  to 
move.  He'd  have  to  go  and  see  what  it  was.  It  had  such  a 
queer  shape,  too,  and  was  so  big.  He  had  too  much  curiosity 
in  him  at  his  age — to  climb  another  hill,  too,  and  he  dog- 
tired.  He  pursed  his  lips  as  he  came  nearer  and  emitted  a 
soundless  whistle.  Some  tramp  or  other !  But  how  did  she 
get  in  and  the  gate  locked?  Poor  thing!  Maybe  she  hadn't 
a  bed  to  go  to — but  he'd  give  her  a  talking  to.  He  stood  still 
and  stared  incredulously.  He  put  down  his  umbrella  and 
breviary  on  the  gravel.  What  in  the  world  was  a  nun  doing 
there?  It  couldn't  be  she  was  dead?  He  ran  forward 
quickly  along  the  grass  edge,  and  stood  for  a  moment,  un- 
decided, over  the  crouched  figure.  There  was  no  trouble, 
she  was  sleeping  like  a  baby.  One  of  the  young  Curtins — 
Winnie.  What  was  the  meaning  of  it  all?  Her  shawl  all 
over  dust,  and  her  slippers  almost  in  flitters.  He  passed  a 
hand  over  his  troubled  forehead  and  frowned.  Was  it  run- 
ning away  she  was?  Thinking  to  get  out  by  the  church 
gate,  and  finding  it  locked?  Did  anyone  ever  see  the  like? 


254  V  ocations 

If  it  had  been  Kitty  now  he  wouldn't  have  put  it  past  her. 
But  Winnie  had  seemed  happy  enough.  For  that  matter 
she  looked  happy  now,  with  that  innocent  smile  on  her  face. 

He  touched  her  shoulder.  She  turned  half  round  and 
snuggled  into  the  grass.  He  shook  her  gently.  She  yawned 
and  looked  up  at  him  with  a  smile. 

"What  in  the "  he  began,  but  he  stopped  suddenly. 

Every  trace  of  colour  had  gone  from  her  face  and  she 
was  staring  at  him  in  terror. 

"The  grass  is  wet  with  dew.  You  might  get  your  death 
of  cold,"  he  said  gently. 

She  was  not  listening  to  him.  Her  eyes  wandered  in  terri- 
fied wonder  from  her  dust-covered  shawl  to  her  torn  slip- 
pers, to  the  sun  blinking  with  a  myriad  golden  eyes  through 
the  top  of  the  hedge.  She  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  and  sat  up 
suddenly.  Terror  had  not  quite  left  her  eyes  and  a  furtive 
expression  was  now  added  to  it. 

"My  shoe  hurt  me.  I  sat  down  to  rest.  I  must  have 
fallen  asleep,"  she  said,  measuring  out  the  truth  carefully, 
and  watching  its  effect  on  him. 

"It  was  a  nice  morning  for  a  walk,  anyway,"  he  said 
cheerfully.  "Trying  to  run  away  you  were,  was  it?" 

Her  face  relaxed.  The  frozen  look  of  terror  which  con- 
stricted it  disappeared.  She  blushed  deeply.  Her  eyes 
looked  up  at  him  with  the  open  candour  of  a  child. 

"That  was  it,"  she  said  eagerly.    "I  was  running  away." 

Her  expression  changed  again.  With  a  dazed  look  of 
pain  she  added  brokenly,  "But  I'll  never  do  it  again — 
never." 

"So  she  wasn't  running  away,"  he  said  to  himself,  stub- 
bing the  edge  of  the  path,  a  puzzled  look  on  his  face.  "Well, 
well,  the  poor  girl  is  hurt,  anyway,  and  there's  no  use  in  me 
pumping  more  lies  out  of  her." 

He  wagged  his  shaggy  eyebrows  fiercely  at  the  toe  of  his 
boot  and  said,  "Well,  well,"  aloud. 

She  watched  his  eyes.  Slowly  her  look  of  fear  came 
back. 

"I  turned  back  at  the  bridge,"  she  said. 


Vocations  255 

"You  did,  did  you?"  he  said,  with  stern  sarcasm,  taken 
off  his  guard  by  the  superfluous  lie. 

"You  don't  believe  me,  but  it's  the  truth — it's  the  truth." 
Despairingly  she  struggled  to  her  feet. 

"There  now,  there  now.  A  couple  of  hours'  rest'll  do 
you  all  the  good  in  the  world.  Let  me  give  that  shawl  a 
shake  for  you."  He  spoke  absently,  trying  to  drive  off  sus- 
picions that  were  crowding  in  on  him. 

"The  poor  thing — the  poor  innocent  little  girl,"  he  mut, 
tered  under  his  breath. 

With  a  look  of  despair  she  walked  beside  him  up  the 
path.  She  looked  at  him  furtively  now  and  again.  Her 
lips  moved  as  if  to  speak,  but  no  sound  got  beyond  them. 

No  wonder  his  face  frightened  her.  He  was  thinking 
fierce  thoughts  and  looking  them.  There  was  nowhere  she 
could  get  to  but  the  presbytery ;  and  Burke  was  alone  in  the 
house.  He  clawed  the  air  with  his  right  hand,  as  if  to  rid 
himself  of  the  thought.  Burke  might  be  light  in  his  man- 
ner with  females,  but  he  couldn't  do  the  like  of  that.  The 
girl  was  a  little  off  her  head  or  something  and  was  only 
stravaging  round,  not  knowing  what  she  was  doing.  There 
were  priests  who  did  the  like  .  .  .  no,  he  wouldn't  think 
it.  He  was  just  a  nasty  minded  old  man,  belying  people 
like  that,  and  there  was  no  more  harm  in  that  innocent  child 
than  in  a  babe  unborn.  .  .  . 

"Are  you  coming  in?"  she  asked,  choking  with  fear,  at 
the  top  of  the  walk. 

"You  can  get  in  the  way  you  got  out,  I  suppose?"  he  said 
harshly. 

She  said  feebly,  "I  can." 

"Listen  to  me  now.  Say  your  prayers.  That's  it.  Say 
your  prayers,"  he  said,  staring  over  her  head  at  the  stuccoed 
chapel. 

"A  layman  wouldn't  do  the  like,  let  alone  a  priest,"  he 
murmured,  as  he  turned  on  his  heel. 

Winnie's  dominant  feeling,  as  she  walked  away,  was  fear. 
Did  he  know?  Would  he  tell?  The  convent  was  more  than 


256  Vocations 

ever  necessary  now  to  her  happiness  .  .  .  and  this  horrid 
old  man  threatened  it. 

Sitting  on  the  egde  of  the  path  in  the  dawn,  in  the  bitter, 
grey  light  which  was  so  soothing  to  her  lacerated  heart, 
she  had  planned  her  martyrdom.  She  would  spend  the 
rest  of  her  life  with  a  secret  sorrow  in  her  heart,  an  ex- 
ample to  all  the  nuns  of  patient  suffering.  The  halo  she 
had  seen  gathering  on  her  brow  had  stilled  the  anger,  the 
resentment,  the  awful  desolation  that  had  made  her  sink  to 
the  ground  in  weakness.  Soon  all  the  horror  of  the  past 
had  been  blotted  out.  She  had  succeeded  in  forgiving 
Father  James,  in  decorating  him  with  all  the  attributes  of 
a  fellow-martyr.  He  was  to  be  a  beautiful  memory,  just 
like  Sister  Eulalie's  friend.  She  would  drop  a  hint  now  and 
again  to  sympathetic  nuns,  and  they  would  speak  of  her 
sorrow  enviously,  in  hushed  voices.  .  .  . 

She  hurried  to  the  sacristy  door  with  a  quaking  heart. 
Her  beautiful  vision  was  torn  to  bits.  Anything  might  hap- 
pen. Even  the  door  might  be  locked.  She  gave  a  sigh  of 
relief  when  it  opened  easily.  Perhaps  he  didn't  know,  after 
all?  Father  James  always  called  him  an  old  owl.  Yet  he 
looked  so  fierce  and  knowing.  He  must  have  known  some- 
thing. His  version  of  it  would  go  the  round  of  the  con- 
vent, and  the  nuns  would  speak  of  her,  behind  her  back,  as 
they  did  of  Sister  Clothilde  who  had  been  caught  doing 
something  terrible.  .  .  . 

She  stared  vacantly  at  the  clock.  Would  they  send  her 
away  ?  No,  thank  God !  She  counted  five  strokes  mechani- 
cally. There  were  those  horrid  birds  singing  and  she  so 
miserable.  Reverend  Mother  would  be  kind.  But  that  sort 
of  kindness  from  Reverend  Mother  was  terrible,  worse 
than  Michael's  bitterness.  And  Mother  Calixta  was  al- 
ways put  out  when  her  charges  were  discovered  doing  any- 
thing wrong.  There  was  nothing  wrong  in  what  she  had 
done,  but  they'd  never  understand  that.  They'd  just  judge 
by  appearances  like  the  rest  of  the  world.  .  .  .  Censorious 
cats,  Father  James  called  them. 

She  leant  on  the  vestment  press  and  wept  in  pity  for  her- 


Vocations  257 

self.  To  have  come  like  this,  too,  when  all  was  over,  when 
she  had  made  her  great  sacrifice.  She  had  put  it  all  away 
as  a  bad  dream;  but  this  shock  brought  it  all  back  again. 
Not  the  happiness,  she  never  could  or  would  forget  that. 
But  her  rage  when  he  told  her  he  was  going,  the  fury  with 
which  she  hated  him,  the  things  she  said  to  him.  It  was 
the  champagne,  of  course,  that  had  gone  to  her  head.  But 
to  fall  from  heaven  into  an  icy  cold  hell  in  one  moment  was 
more  than  flesh  and  blood  could  bear.  And  he  had  been  a 
saint  through  it  all.  It  was  just  as  hard  on  him;  harder, 
perhaps,  as  he  said,  but  he  had  borne  up  wonderfully.  It 
was  all  the  cruel  bishop.  And  she  had  left  him  in  anger. 
It  was  so  wrong  of  her  to  feel  so  desperate,  not  to  care 
what  happened  to  her  ...  to  wish  herself  dead.  And 
when  he  warned  her  at  the  door  to  be  careful,  how  she  had 
sneered  at  him.  God  had  been  merciful  to  her  in  the  dawn, 
cold  and  lonely,  as  if  in  sympathy  with  her  misery;  and  in 
the  rosy  colour  of  the  sky  afterwards  that  gave  her  hope, 
and  showed  her  the  true  way  to  bear  her  suffering.  .  .  . 
She  must  send  a  little  note  to  Father  Burke  to  tell  him  that 
she  saw  everything  as  he  did,  beautifully. 

She  shivered.  And  now  Father  Brady  had  spoiled  it  all. 
If  only  she  hadn't  been  so  tired  and  sleepy.  God  was  pun- 
ishing her  for  her  carelessness.  She  had  never  liked  Father 
Brady;  how  right  she  was.  She  couldn't  understand 
Kitty's  liking  for  him.  Kitty? 

She  started  and  stood  erect.  Could  Kitty  help?  She 
looked  hopefully  at  the  sunlight  penetrating  a  chink  in  the 
shutters  and  followed  the  little  shaft,  with  brightened  eyes, 
to  its  playground  on  the  distempered  wall.  Kitty  might  be 
able  to  do  something!  She  looked  at  herself  in  a  small 
mirror  and  shuddered.  She  must  get  the  dust  off.  There 
was  the  priests'  clothes  brush.  She  took  off  her  shawl  and 
veil,  brushed  them  and  her  habit  carefully.  How  lucky 
that  Father  James  insisted  on  having  a  looking-glass  in  the 
sacristy.  Her  clothes  were  damp,  but  Kitty  wouldn't  notice 
that,  and  she'd  change  her  shoes  before  going  in  to  her. 
She'd  hate  telling  Kitty  anything,  she  was  so  prim  and  par- 


258  Vocations 

ticular,  but  it  was  her  only  chance.  Not  everything,  of 
course,  but  just  enough  to  make  her  see  that  she  was  in 
trouble.  Father  Brady  looked  on  Kitty  as  a  rock  of  sense. 
If  only  she  could  get  Kitty  to  speak  to  him  before  he'd 
have  time  to  tell  the  Mothers.  .  .  . 

The  stroke  of  the  quarter  made  her  put  aside  the  brush 
hurriedly.  With  another  look  at  the  glass  she  rushed  from 
the  room  and  across  the  chapel.  What  should  she  tell  Kitty? 
She  opened  carefully  the  door  giving  on  the  corridor  and 
breathed  more  freely.  It  was  a  dreadful  mess  to  be  in,  and 
Kitty  wouldn't  believe  just  anything.  Besides,  how  much 
did  Father  Brady  know?  Oh,  that  God  might  direct  her 
to  say  just  the  right  thing  and  no  more.  She  put  away 
her  shawl  in  the  cloak-room,  and  crept  softly  up  the  stairs. 
She  couldn't  think.  She'd  have  to  leave  it  to  God  and  the 
inspiration  of  the  last  moment.  Running  away  would  never 
do  with  Kitty,  who  knew  she  was  so  happy  in  the  convent. 
She  opened  her  door  noiselessly,  changed  her  shoes.  She 
felt  so  much  better  that  God  must  be  less  angry  with  her. 
Perhaps  Father  Brady  knew  nothing  at  all  ?  Still,  he  caught 
her  asleep  in  the  juniper  walk  before  five  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  that  must  look  odd.  Why  had  she  said  she 
was  running  away?  If  she  had  only  said  she  was  walking 
in  her  sleep  or  had  a  toothache  or  something?  But  Kitty 
would  get  him  to  keep  his  mouth  shut. 

She  tiptoed  quietly  along  the  corridor  and  up  the  stairs 
to  Kitty's  cell,  and  murmured  a  prayer  for  light  and  guid- 
ance as  she  turned  the  handle  of  the  door. 


K 

that  Wmr 


Chapter    17 

'ITTY  woke  to  find  Winnie  standing1  inside  the 
door,  her  finger  to  her  lips,  curiosity  almost 
overcoming  the  fear  in  her  eyes. 

For  a  moment  it  was  no  surprise  to  Kitty 
that  Winnie  should  be  in  the  boat  under  the  trees  of 
Lavally.  But  what  was  a  nun  doing  there?  A  blink  and 
a  look  round  the  dimly  lighted  room  made  her  sit  up 
with  a  start.  She  blushed  vividly.  Had  Winnie  sur- 
prised her  secret? 

"You'd  think  they  had  cut  it  on  purpose.  You  look 
better  than  when  it  was  long,"  Winnie  tragically  whis- 
pered. 

"What  do  you  mean?  Oh,  my  hair!  I  haven't  looked." 

"You're  like  a  beautiful  boy,"  Winnie  said,  half  jeal- 
ous, half  admiring. 

Kitty  put  up  her  hands,  felt  her  hair  and  blushed 
again.  Under  a  hat  one  would  hardly  notice  that  it  had 
been  cut. 

"You're  always  showing  off  your  arms,"  Winnie  said, 
and  flopped  down  on  the  bed  with  a  sigh  of  misery. 

"The  bell  hasn't  gone?  What  are  you  doing  here?" 
Kitty  asked  severely.  "What's  wrong?"  she  added  anx- 
iously, as  Winnie  began  to  cry. 

"It's  old,  deaf  Euphemia  who's  next  you,  isn't  it?" 
Winnie  said,  with  an  anxious  look  at  the  wall,  "and  it's 
the  stairs  on  the  other  side?  I've  had  a  dreadful,  dread- 
ful time,"  she  added,  allowing  herself  a  few  choking 
sobs.  "It's  that  dreadful  Father  Brady.  You  must  get 
him  to  promise  not  to  tell." 

"Tell  what  ?  The  difficulty  would  be  to  get  him  to  tell 
anything." 

"You  think  so?    You  really  think  so?"  Winnie  eagerly 
259 


260  Vocations 

clutched  Kitty's  hand,  pulling  it  towards  her.  "It  was 
nothing,  of  course.  But  it  might  look  strange  if  the 
Mothers  heard  about  it.  And  I  wouldn't  like  the  nuns 
to  know  for  anything.  They  might  pass  remarks.  The 
fussy  old  Marthas,  I  mean." 

"It's  a  way  they  have,"  Kitty  said  unfeelingly.  "But 
what  about?  It  must  be  nearly  six  o'clock,"  she  added, 
with  a  yawn. 

"It's  not.  You've  no  heart.  Wait  till  you  hear — then 
you'll  be  surprised.  He  caught  me  asleep  on  the  grass 
under  the  juniper  hedge  over  half  an  hour  ago — before 
five  o'clock,"  she  whispered. 

Kitty's  start  and  her  surprised  "What?"  made  Winnie 
give  a  deep  sigh  of  satisfaction, 

"What  in  the  world  were  you  doing  there?" 

"Just  asleep.  You  should  have  seen  me.  I  got  all  wet, 
too.  The  dew."  Winnie  had  recourse  to  her  handker- 
chief. 

"But  why — what  brought  you  there?" 

Winnie  dabbed  her  eyes  for  a  few  second,  sighed  and 
looked  into  Kitty's  surprised  eyes  with  innocent  can- 
dour. 

"What,  indeed?  That's  what  I  can't  make  out.  Do 
you  remember  when  Laurence  walked  into  Mother  Ca- 
lixta's  cell  in  the  middle  of  the  night?  Dressed  and  all, 
too.  And  she  never  remembered  a  word  of  it  after- 
wards. I  had  all  my  clothes  on — even  my  shawl.  Wasn't 
it  queer?" 

"Sleep-walking?"  Kitty  said,  with  relief. 

Winnie  gave  a  pleased  nod. 

"You  think  so?  But  wasn't  it  queer?  I  was  dazed 
when  he  spoke  to  me.  I  said  such  a  funny  thing.  He 
asked  me  if  I  was  running  away,  and  I  said  I  was.  Did 
you  ever  hear  anything  so  funny?" 

But  Kitty  didn't  think  it  at  all  funny.  The  words  re- 
minded her  of  her  own  decision  to  leave  the  convent. 
She  looked  at  Winnie  anxiously.  Winnie  had  been  io 


Vocations  261 

love  for  years.  With  that  dreadful  man — but  still,  it 
was  love. 

"In  the  church  walk,  too,"  she  said,  continuing  her 
thoughts  aloud. 

Winnie  dropped  her  eyes  and  nervously  fingered  the 
bedclothes. 

"You  didn't  go  to  meet  anyone?"  Kitty  asked  doubt- 
fully. 

Winnie  gave  her  a  quick,  half-frightened  look,  buried 
her  face  in  her  check  handkerchief  and  sobbed.  "To  say 
such  a  thing  to  a  professed  nun !  And  you  said  yourself 
it  must  me  sleep-walking,"  she  said  brokenly  into  her 
handkerchief. 

"I'm  sorry,  dear."  Kitty  patted  her  hand  "I  don't 
know  what  I  thought.  Father  Burke  leaving — and  you 
are  in  love  with  him,  you  know.  I  shouldn't  have  said 
it." 

Winnie's  sobs  ceased  suddenly  when  Kitty  began  to 
speak.  She  sniffed  a  few  times  and  said  with  pained  in- 
dignation, "Indeed,  you  shouldn't.  You  almost  make  me 
blush  with  shame.  I  have  a  deep  regard  for  Father 
James,  of  course,  but  I  trust  it  is  in  a  nun-like  way. 
I  must  say  I'm  surprised  at  you,  Kitty.  And  you  a  nun, 
too.  Why,  one  would  think  you  were  out  in  the  world 
you  speak  so  grossly." 

"I  almost  am,"  Kitty  said,  with  a  happy  laugh.  "I'm 
going  to  Reverend  Mother  after  Mass.  I  suppose  there'll 
be  a  lot  of  fuss  with  the  bishop  and  things,  but  I  ought 
to  be  able  to  clear  out  in  a  few  days.  You  can't  imagine 
what  it  is  to  feel  that  you're  so  near  freedom,"  she 
added,  lifting  up  her  arms  with  a  sweep  that  sent  the 
loose  sleeves  of  her  nightdress  over  her  shoulders. 

"Don't  do  that.  It's  so  immodest,"  Winnie  gasped,  in 
a  shocked  tone.  Her  look  of  surprise  changed  to  one  of 
horror,  and  she  edged  away  from  Kitty.  "You  wretched 
girl;  what  are  you  saying?  And  you  only  professed 
yesterday?  Are  you  mad?" 

"I  was;  but  I'm  sane  since  yesterday,"  Kitty  said, 


262  Vocations 

looking  at  her  bare  arms  with  a  sigh.    "Some  day  I  may 
even  wear  a  low  dress." 

"There  wasn't  a  scandal?"  Winnie  asked,  breathless. 

"I'm  just  sick  of  it  all,"  Kitty  said,  with  a  yawn  and  a 
lazy  smile. 

"You're  as  mad  as  you  used  to  be  at  school.  The  devil 
has  got  hold  of  you,  or  you  wouldn't  speak  with  such 
levity  of  holy  things.  Say  you're  mad,  Kitty  darling. 
I'd  rather  you'd  be  mad  than  to  give  such  scandal.  The 
nuns  will  always  be  pointing  to  me  as  the  sister  of  the 
nun  who  ran  away.  What  will  darling  mamma  say?" 

"What,  indeed?"  Kitty  winced  a  little.  "There'll  be 
the  devil  to  pay.  But  papa  might  stand  up  for  me." 

"Such  language!  And  your  deception!  Pretending 
to  be  strict  about  things !  I  must  say  I  always  suspect 
that  sort  myself.  Why,  they  were  all  saying  you'd  be  in 
the  running  for  office  before  long.  Anyone  who  could 
pretend  to  so  much  could  conceal  any  depravity.  I 
shouldn't  be  at  all  surprised  if  there  was  something." 

"Perhaps." 

"Oh,  tell  me,"  Winnie  said  eagerly.  "I'll  be  able  to 
help  you.  I'll  never  tell  anyone.  I'll  pray  for  you. 
Prayer  can  move  mountains.  Though  your  sins  are  as 
red  as  scarlet  they'll  be  made  whiter  than  snow.  I'll 
keep  it  a  dead  secret." 

"It's  only  that  I'd  rather  make  love  outside  than  in 
the  convent.  I  never  could  stand  priests.  Run  away 
now,  Winnie  dear,  and  don't  be  a  fool.  You're  breaking 
the  rules  by  being  here." 

Winnie  blushed  furiously.  She  leant  against  the  end  of 
the  bed  for  support  and  glared  at  Kitty. 

"No  rule  stands  in  the  way  of  saving  a  soul,"  she 
said.  "Though  you  hint  things  at  me  itself,  I'll  do  my 
duty  and  warn  you.  You  are  a  bad  nun;  but,  thank 
God,  you  can't  escape  from  your  vows.  The  bishop 
won't  let  you  go.  He  didn't  let  Clothilde  go.  I  don't 
know  what  you've  done,  but  it  couldn't  be  much  worse 
than  what  she  did.  And  if  he  let  you  out  itself  your 


Vocations  263 

vows  would  still  cling  to  you.  You  could  never  have 
anything  to  do  with  the  degrading  passion  lay  people 
call  love.  Or  if  you  did,  you'd  be  living  in  sin." 

Kitty  smiled  happily  at  her  extended  hand.  Winnie 
was  talking  such  nonsense.  Love  was  purifying  and  not 
degrading.  The  degradation  came  when  she  tried  to 
crush  love  out  of  her  heart.  She  felt  now  as  if  she  could 
float  out  beyond  the  convent  walls ;  fly  without  moving 
her  wings.  Locks  or  walls  or  bishops  or  nuns  could  not 
stop  her.  A  bird  must  feel  this  freedom.  She  was  no 
longer  caged.  She  could  soar  and  sing  like  a  lark,  pro- 
claiming her  happiness. 

"Poor  old  Winnie.  We  never  got  a  chance,"  she  said, 
patting  Winnie's  hand  in  an  overflow  of  sympathy. 

Winnie  resented  this  ignoring  of  her  superiority.  "A 
chance  of  what?"  she  asked  angrily. 

"Of  knowing  ourselves,  life,  anything — the  beauty 
there  is  in  the  world." 

"How  can  you  say  such  things,  you  wicked  girl,  after 
all  that  Sister  Eulalie  and  St.  Margaret's  and  God  and 
mamma  and  the  convent  did  for  us  ?  I  often  warned  you 
that  you  were  neglecting  the  divine  knowledge  and  the 
safeguards  God  surrounded  us  with.  You  may  not  know 
yourself  and  the  world,  but,  thank  God,  I  do.  I  know 
everything  that  God  wishes  me  to  know,  and  I  trust  for 
guidance  to  His  holy  will." 

"There's  the  bell.  Cut  away  now.  I  want  to  dress  and 
make  sure  of  seeing  Reverend  Mother,"  Kitty  said, 
throwing  back  the  bed  clothes. 

The  bell  startled  Winnie  into  a  recollection  of  her 
own  trouble. 

"You  won't  forget  about  Father  Brady,  Kitty  dear- 
est?" she  implored. 

"No.  Do  run  off,"  said  Kitty  impatiently.  "I  hope  to 
goodness  you  won't  get  cold  or  anything.  You  ought 
to  see  the  doctor  about  that  sleep-walking." 

"No,  no,"  Winnie  said  in  alarm.  "I'll  pray.  Be  sure 
not  to  forget,  darling." 


264  Vocations 

She  tiptoed  towards  the  door,  turned  round  when  she 
got  half-way,  and  whispered  impressively : 

"And  I'll  pray  hard  for  you,  too,  that  God  may  save 
you  from  your  wickedness.  I'll  offer  up  for  you  a  great 
sacrifice  I'm  going  to  make.  You'll  see  that  He'll  listen 
to  me,  and  you'll  be  a  good  nun  yet.  Think  of  the  dis- 
grace. I'd  be  dead  ashamed;  and  the  nuns  would  be  so 
much  put  out.  And  to  go  back  and  live  over  the  shop — 
it's  all  too  dreadful." 

Kitty  jumped  out  of  bed.  "If  you  don't  hurry  you'll 
be  caught  rule  breaking,"  she  said,  preparing  to  wash. 

"The  seventh  rule  of  modesty,  Kitty  darling,"  Winnie 
said,  in  a  shocked  tone,  turning  away  her  eyes. 

She  stood,  listening,  with  her  hand  on  the  handle  of 
the  door. 

"There's  such  a  lot  of  noise.  Do  look  out,  Kitty,  and 
see  if  the  corridor  is  clear,"  she  whispered. 

"Like  this?"  Kitty  laughed,  splashing  the  water  in 
her  tiny  basin. 

"Oh,  no,  no.  I'll  risk  it  and  trust  in  God,"  Winnie  said 
nervously. 

Kitty,  an  amused  look  in  her  streaming  face,  watched 
her  leave  the  room.  As  the  door  shut  noiselessly  she 
threw  back  her  head  and  laughed  aloud.  Nuns  were  so 
funny.  They  weren't  all  as  funny  as  Winnie,  of  course. 
Still,  some  were  even  funnier.  The  funniest  of  all  was 
Sebastian  who  was  in  love  with  St.  Aloysius  and  fought 
with  any  nun  who  dared  to  pray  to  him.  But  that  was  a 
tragedy.  She  rubbed  herself  with  her  little  towel  till 
she  glowed.  What  seemed  so  comic  must  be  a  tragedy 
for  so  many.  Not  all  of  them  could  satisfy  their  hunger 
for  love  in  a  saint.  Sex  was  so  much  stronger  in  a  con- 
vent than  outside.  .  .  . 

Her  mind  wandered  back  over  her  past  life  as  she  put 
on  her  habit.  Unlike  Winnie  and  so  many  of  the  others 
she  hadn't  been  ignorant  when  she  entered.  Not  that 
she  knew  much  of  the  world.  She  knew  little  of  it  ex-* 
cept  what  she  picked  up  from  Bessie  Sweetman  and 


Vocations  265 

Daisy  Thornton ;  but,  little  as  it  was,  it  made  her  resent 
the  glosses  and  evasions  of  the  nuns  at  St.  Margaret's. 
Their  attempts,  direct  and  indirect,  to  persuade  her  that 
she  had  a  vocation  had  made  her  definitely  hostile.  The 
confidences  of  an  unhappy  nun  made  her  almost  hate 
the  convent.  The  passionate  devotion  of  some  of  the  nuns, 
instead  of  evoking  any  response  of  affection,  gave  her 
acute  feelings  of  uneasiness.  The  austerity  of  some  of 
the  nuns  appealed  to  her  even  less  than  the  sensuousness 
of  others.  And  all  combined  in  trying  to  catch  her  in  a 
net.  Nuns  who  were  unhappy  in  the  convent  were  as 
eager  to  have  her  become  a  nun  as  those  who  were 
happy.  It  was  as  if  decoy  birds  really  enjoyed  inducing 
others  to  share  their  unhappiness.  How  often  she  had 
laughed  with  Bessie  Sweetman  and  Daisy  Thornton  over 
the  efforts  that  were  made  to  entrap  them.  The  easy 
capture  of  Winnie  made  her  dislike  nuns  all  the  more.  The 
one  fixed  resolution  she  had  carried  away  from  St.  Mar- 
garet's was  never  to  become  a  nun.  Yet  the  convent 
must  have  influenced  her  all  the  same.  When  she  got 
into  that  dreadful  state  of  mind  over  Dr.  Thornton  a 
convent  seemed  the  only  refuge.  All  her  actual  expe- 
rience of  convents  was  forgotten,  and  the  accumulated 
suggestions  of  years  drove  her  to  the  veil.  From  a  child 
the  convent  had  been  dinned  into  her  ears  as  a  haven  of 
peace  and  freedom  from  sin.  She  had  had  no  call,  no  vo- 
cation. She  had  entered  the  convent  to  escape  from  sin. 
Ever  since  she  had  been  so  preoccupied  with  temptation 
that  she  had  given  little  thought  to  her  vocation,  and  had 
taken  Father  Bernardine's  word  for  it.  ... 

She  said  the  angelus  to  the  sound  of  the  bell  and  hur- 
ried down  to  the  chapel  for  morning  prayer.  In  passing 
Reverend  Mother's  stall  she  asked  if  she  could  see  her 
for  a  few  minutes  after  Mass. 

"Eh,  eh?"  the  old  nun  said,  after  a  few  seconds'  strug- 
gle to  recall  her  mind.  "Why,  of  course,  child.  Come 
to  my  room  about  a  quarter-past  eight." 

She  said  morning  prayer  with  a  glad  heart.    At  medi- 


266  Vocations 

tation  her  eyes  wandered,  and  her  thoughts.  The  nuns, 
huddled  back  in  their  stalls,  made  such  a  restful  picture. 
It  was  all  so  beautiful,  so  quiet,  so  dead.  Winnie  was 
asleep  in  her  stall,  her  head  swaying  gently,  a  peaceful 
smile  on  her  lips.  They  would  go  on  being  dead  like 
this  for  years  and  years,  and  she  should  be  out  in  the 
world,  alive.  It  was  selfish  of  her  to  think  like  this. 
And  some  of  them  would  deny  that  they  were  dead. 
They  would  say  that  they  were  full  of  a  life  that  was 
higher  and  far  nobler  than  hers.  Perhaps  they  were. 
But  she  could  never  be  of  those  few.  She  could  respect 
them  and  admire  them,  could  understand  them  even,  but 
she  could  not  be  of  them.  What  was  it  George  Lynch 
called  them?  Wraiths  of  dead  women.  There  were  a 
few  in  St.  Margaret's,  there  were  a  few  here,  there  were 
some  in  every  convent.  The  futilities  of  the  others  ob- 
scured them,  but  they  had  a  beauty  of  their  own  as  an 
orchid  has.  Thank  God,  she  no  longer  believed  that  God 
took  the  trouble  to  form  her  wonderful  body  in  order  to 
give  Himself  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  trample  on  it — 
much  less  to  see  her  make  believe.  .  .  . 

She  joined  in  the  Office  as  in  a  hymn  of  thanksgiving, 
and  felt,  as  Father  Dunne  reverently  said  Mass,  that  God 
was  adding  new  strength  and  courage  and  hope  to  her 
already  overflowing  heart. 

She  caught  up  Reverend  Mother  in  the  corridor  near 
her  private  sitting-room.  The  old  nun  smiled,  led  the 
way  into  the  room  without  speaking,  sighed  as  she 
pointed  to  a  cane  armchair  for  Kitty,  and  looked  a  little 
worried  as  she  sank  into  her  own  chair. 

"Well,  now?"  she  said,  grasping  her  beads. 

Kitty  looked  at  the  inkstain  on  the  red  table  cover, 
at  the  bowl  of  tulips  in  the  centre  of  the  table,  at  the 
crucifix  above  the  prie-Dieu,  at  the  few  dozen  books  on 
an  open  shelf. 

"Before  I  forget  it,  Sister  Thomasine  wants  you  for 
the  sixth  class — and  she  generally  has  what  she  wants. 


Vocations  267 

You'll  find  her  strict,  but  straight,"  Reverend  Mother 
said,  with  a  sigh. 

Kitty  looked  at  the  few  austere  chairs  along  the  dis- 
tempered wall.  It  had  always  struck  her,  too,  that  so 
many  of  the  nuns  weren't  straight  .  .  .  little  petty 
crookedness  that  sickened  one.  .  .  . 

"I  want  to  leave  the  convent,  Reverend  Mother,"  she 
said,  looking  up  with  a  feeling  of  relief. 

The  old  nun's  florid  face  went  grey  about  the  eyes  and 
she  suddenly  looked  older  and  feebler.  She  looked  down 
at  her  rosary,  watched  her  fingers  twirl  round  and  round 
a  single  bead  till  the  wire  snapped. 

"I  always  do  that,"  she  said,  holding  up  the  rosary 
with  a  wry  smile.  "My  God,  child!  What  put  that 
thought  into  your  head — and  the  ink  hardly  dry  on  your 
vows?" 

"I  must  have  been  mad.  I  was  a  fool,  I  didn't  know 
what  I  was  doing.  It  was  all  a  dreadful  mistake." 

"It  isn't  twenty-four  hours  ago  yet,"  Reverend 
Mother  said  vaguely.  "It's  all  this  might  be  the  mis- 
take. Everyone  agreed  that  you  had  every  mark  of  a 
true  vocation.  It's  the  excitement  or  the  devil  tempting 
you;  perhaps  your  stomach  is  upset.  There's  the 
bell  for  breakfast.  We  must  be  going  down  or  the  nuns 
will  be  asking  questions.  Say  your  prayers  and  it  will  all 
pass  away.  Come  to  me  again  to-morrow  and  tell  me 
it's  all  right,"  she  added,  with  a  hopeful  sigh,  putting 
her  hands  on  the  arms  of  her  chair  as  if  about  to  rise. 

"Please  don't  go,  Reverend  Mother.  We  must  settle 
it  now.  I  have  no  vocation.  I  never  had  a  vocation.  I 
don't  even  know  what's  meant  by  it — it's  meaningless 
to  me  anyhow.  I  want  to  go  home,  to  go  out  into  the 
world,  to  live.  I  don't  want  to  be  a  nun." 

"My  God,  my  God !  But  you  are  a  nun,  child/'  the  old 
nun  said  feebly,  with  a  supplicating  glance  at  the  cruci- 
fix. "This  is  dreadful — dreadful.  Poor  child,  poor  child. 
What  can  I  do?  It's  all  my  fault.  I'm  not  fit  to  rule — 
I  never  was.  It's  all  a  bad  dream.  If  it  was  Winnie  now 


268  Vocations 

.  .  .  but  I  was  so  sure  of  you.  I  thought  to  myself  she's 
coming  to  ask  me  to  be  allowed  to  practice  some  aus- 
terity, but  I  won't  let  her.  Perhaps  later,  I  thought — 
the  scourge  once  or  twice  a  week,  but  not  yet,  not  yet." 

"It  has  been  all  my  fault.  I'm  sorry  to  give  you  pain. 
I've  been  such  a  fool,  but  I  must  go— I  must  go,"  Kitty 
said  brokenly. 

"But  I  can't  let  you  go,  child."  Reverend  Mother 
dropped  her  hands  on  her  knees  with  a  helpless  gesture. 
"You  must  satisfy  the  bishop.  He  may  not  let  you  go 
at  all.  He's  against  letting  nuns  out  into  the  world 
again.  It  gives  scandal,  he  says,  and  is  a  reflection  on 
the  Church,  and  must  be  avoided  at  all  costs.  I  don't 
know.  Often  when  I  see  their  misery  inside  I  think 
they'd  be  better  out.  But  when  I  think  of  them  out  in 
the  world,  bound  by  their  vow,  and  without  the  safe- 
guards of  the  convent,  I'm  inclined  to  think  the  bishop 
is  right.  It's  all  a  mystery,  and  I'm  not  fit  to  deal  with 
it." 

The  feeling  of  the  prison  house  came  over  Kitty  again. 
But  she  was  now  conscious  of  the  bars  without  any  fear 
of  them.  They  stifled  her  and  she  was  going  to  break 
them.  Whatever  the  bishop  said  she'd  go  out.  And 
she'd  leave  all  her  chains  behind  her  in  the  convent. 

"But  one  is  free  to  marry?"  she  asked  coldly. 

"It's  that,  then?"  Reverend  Mother  said,  with  a  sigh. 
"No,  no.  You'd  go  out  with  your  vow  of  chastity.  Some- 
times, very  rarely  and  with  the  greatest  difficulty,  one 
might  get  permission  to  marry,  but  under  onerous  con- 
ditions. It  hardly  ever  happens,  the  Church  is  so  much 
against  it.  Your  vow  is  perpetual.  Don't  go  out  into 
temptation,  child.  This  must  have  happened  very  sud- 
denly. You  haven't  had  time  to  pray  yet.  You  haven't 
even  consulted  your  confessor.  We'll  get  Father  Bernar- 
dine  down  for  you.  Believe  me,  you'll  be  happier  in  the 
convent.  No  one  will  marry  you — there  is  a  strong  feel- 
ing against  it.  And  even  if  you  met  some  one  who  did 
wish  it  the  Church  would  put  every  obstacle  in  the  way. 


Vocations  269 

One  can  withstand  these  temptations.    They  pass  off." 

"But  I  have  no  temptations,"  Kitty  said.  "I've  had 
none  at  all  since  I  made  up  my  mind  to  leave.  I  want 
to  be  free." 

A  feeling  of  rebellion  surged  through  her.  A  sense  of 
injustice  rankled  in  her.  Reverend  Mother,  with  all  her 
gentleness,  was  one  of  her  gaolers.  Her  life  from  a  child 
flashed  through  her  mind  in  an  instant.  Always  she  had 
been  pushed  into  the  convent.  Her  first  memory  was  of 
being  called  "Kitty  Nun."  She  played  nuns  with  her 
dolls.  In  the  infant  school  she  was  the  little  nun.  Her 
nurse  hardly  ever  spoke  of  anything  else.  And  always 
her  mother  was  pushing  her  relentlessly  into  the  con- 
vent. Her  revolt  before  was  only  half-hearted.  She 
hadn't  burst  the  bonds  with  which  she  had  been  secured 
so  remorselessly.  Her  mind  had  been  so  filled  with  the 
images  of  what  she  was  not  to  think  or  do  that  the  in- 
hibitions themselves  drove  her  to  madness  about  Dr. 
Thornton.  Father  Brady  would  have  saved  her,  but  her 
whole  training  made  her  turn  to  the  convent,  led  her 
to  listen  to  Father  Bernardine  and  accept  his  final  push 
into  misery.  George  Lynch's  look  was  only  the  occa- 
sion of  her  rescue.  She  wasn't  sure  if  she  was  in  love 
with  him  at  all.  It  was  just  that  she  had  burst  her 
bonds.  She  was  in  love  with  life,  with  love,  maybe.  But 
her  mind  and  emotions  had,  for  the  first  time,  some  sort 
of  balance. 

"No  one  can  be  free  in  this  world,"  Reverend  Mother 
said,  with  a  sigh,  after  a  long  pause  in  which  her  mind 
seemed  lost  in  the  blaze  of  flowers  in  the  bowl. 

"But  I  am  free,  Reverend  Mother,"  Kitty  said  hap- 
pily. "I  can't  tell  you  how  free — as  free  as  the  air,  as 
the  sunlight,  anything. 

"Your  vows,  dear?" 

"I  don't  believe  God  cares  a  pin  about  them.  I'm  sure 
He  never  meant  me  to  take  them,  and  doesn't  wish  me 
to  bother  about  them." 

Reverend  Mother,  horror-stricken,  with  half-open  lips, 


270  Vocations 

stared  at  her.  "Blasphemy!"  she  murmured  weakly. 
"Kitty,  darling,  pray,  and  pray  hard.  I  never  dreamt 
the  devil  had  got  such  a  hold  on  you." 

"He  hasn't  really,  Reverend  Mother.  I'm  sure  he  had 
for  the  last  three  years,  but  not  now.  Now  I'm  sure  it's 
God." 

"That's  the  worst  temptation  of  all.  Oh,  Kitty,  that 
you  should  have  come  to  this.  There's  no  more  subtle 
snare  than  to  think  that  God  approves  of  your  sin.  I 
don't  know  what  to  think.  I'm  bewildered  by  it  all. 
You're  a  good  girl,  and  you're  all  wrong.  You  must  lay 
bare  your  soul  to  your  confessor.  And  the  bishop  may 
be  able  to  help.  Above  all,  pray.  I'm.  too  old  and  too 
confused  even  to  understand,  much  less  to  help.  You 
want  me  to  speak  to  the  bishop?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes." 

The  old  nun's  lips  trembled.  Tears  fell  unnoticed  on 
her  guimpe.  Kitty  threw  herself  impulsively  at  her  feet 
and  wept. 

Reverend  Mother  patted  the  head  in  her  lap  with  one 
hand  and  fingered  her  beads  with  the  other.  "There, 
there,  now,"  she  said  softly,  after  a  few  minutes.  "We 
must  be  going  down  to  breakfast." 

"I'm  so  sorry  to  hurt  you.  You  forgive  me,  Reverend 
Mother?" 

"It  doesn't  matter  about  my  hurt.  It's  the  hurt  to 
God  that  matters.  Of  course,  I  forgive  you.  I  can't  un- 
derstand you,  but  I  forgive  you  all  the  same.  Let  us 
pray  that  God  may.  Whatever  you  do,  may  you  be 
happy.  Run  away  now,  child,  and  God  bless  you.  Your 
tea  will  be  cold." 


Chapter  18 

REVEREND  MOTHER  forgot  her  breakfast. 
She  looked  out  at  the  trees  and  flowers  with 
eyes  that  held  the  vague  wonder  of  a  child. 
It  seemed  impossible  that  sin  could  exist 
where  every  leaf  and  bird  spoke  the  goodness  and  love 
of  God.  All  nature  praised  Him.  Man  alone  sinned, 
tried  to  deform  this  beautiful  world.  Why  God  allowed 
sin  was  one  of  the  mysteries  she  could  never  fathom. 
As  nothing  could  detract  from  His  infinite  goodness,  sin 
was  in  some  way  connected  with  His  inscrutable  wis- 
dom. Sin  could  even  enter  a  convent.  It  had  always 
come  as  a  shock,  but  she  had  been  forced  to  recognize 
that  nuns  sinned.  That  they  actually  had  passions  like 
women  in  the  world.  Before  she  entered  the  convent 
she  had  had  vague  curiosities,  but  no  real  temptation. 
As  a  novice  and  a  young  nun  she  had  had  regret  for  her 
horse,  for  her  own  room  at  home  with  its  flowered  chintz 
curtains  and  valences  and  chair  covers,  for  her  "coming 
out"  ball  which  had  never  taken  place,  for  her  amber 
necklace.  And  once,  when  her  younger  sister  married, 
she  had  sinfully  longed  to  be  out  in  the  world,  not  that 
she  might  marry,  for  the  thought  of  marriage  had  al- 
ways been  repugnant  to  her,  but  to  see  the  Pope  and  the 
sky  and  colour  of  Italy,  where  her  sister  was  to  spend 
her  honeymoon. 

She  sighed  as  she  watched  nuns  pass  to  and  fro  on  the 
terrace,  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground.  It  was  impossi- 
ble to  believe  that  sin  could  enter  that  peaceful  garden. 
But,  alas,  it  had  entered  often  and  often.  She  had  tried 
time  and  again  not  to  see  things,  to  find  excuses,  to  re- 
fuse to  listen,  to  forget,  God  was  punishing  her  now  for 
her  sins  of  omission.  She  was  seventy  and  she  had 
271 


272  Vocations 

never  even  tried  to  understand.  It  had  been  so  easy  to 
run  away  to  her  prayers  and  her  flowers.  She  had  been 
twenty-five  years  Reverend  Mother,  yet  she  knew  less 
of  the  convent  than  when  she  was  a  novice.  Kitty  Cur- 
tin's  madness  convinced  her  of  her  unfitness  to  manage 
the  convent.  God  knew  she  had  never  sought  office. 
All  she  ever  wanted  was  to  be  let  say  her  prayers  in 
quiet;  and,  perhaps,  to  be  allowed  to  tend  the  flowers 
if  God  willed  it.  The  nuns  would  never  have  elected  her 
Superior.  She  had  been  appointed  by  the  old  bishop, 
largely  because  she  was  a  De  Lacy  of  Cleggan ;  and  she 
had  been  reappointed,  time  after  time  by  the  old  bishop 
and  the  new,  because  the  nuns  had  never  been  able  to 
agree,  and  it  came  easier  to  a  bishop  to  appoint  an  old 
Superior  who  gave  no  trouble  than  to  risk  a  new  choice. 
A  nice  mess  she  had  made  of  it.  After  Kitty  Curtin  any- 
thing might  happen.  And  the  worst  of  it  was  she  couldn't 
even  understand  this  scandal.  In  the  other  cases,  horri- 
ble as  it  was  to  remember,  the  nuns  had  been  found  out 
doing  wrong  or  had  confessed  to  human  weakness.  But 
here  was  a  girl  who  denied  that  she  was  committing  sin 
at  all,  gloried  in  her  action  as  if  it  was  a  virtue,  and 
even  denied  the  validity  of  the  sacred  laws  of  Holy 
Church  on  which  the  whole  idea  of  the  conventual  life 
depended.  It  was  as  if  the  convent  was  toppling  to  the 
ground.  Here  was  gross  sin  and  scandal.  Yet  the  girl 
didn't  seem  to  be  a  sinner.  She  was  frank  and  honest. 
She  had  kept  rules  with  scrupulous  exactness.  If  she 
had  any  fault  it  was  in  praying  too  much. 

She  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  tried  to  say  her 
beads,  but  the  thought  of  Kitty  kept  intruding  itself. 
She  knelt  at  the  prie-Dieu,  but  it  helped  her  less.  The 
gentle,  thorn-crowned  face  on  the  crucifix  seemed 
stonily  indifferent.  "It  was  all  my  fault,  all  my  fault," 
she  said,  in  a  voice  shaken  by  sobs.  "Father,  forgive 
her,  for  she  knows  not  what  she  does.  It  is  I  who  have 
been  remiss.  I  don't  know  how,  but  I  always  am.  Visit 
her  sin  on  me" — she  paused  and  added  vaguely — "if  it 


Vocations  273 

be  a  sin."  Kitty's  cheerful,  happy  face  seemed  to  smile 
at  her  as  it  had  smiled  when  she  was  saying  things  that 
should  have  distorted  her  face  into  some  black  image 
of  sin.  She  was  glad  the  child  wasn't  unhappy.  It  was 
all  so  hard  to  understand;  but,  perhaps,  Michael  and 
Calixta  could  throw  some  light  on  it.  Anyhow,  she 
mustn't  neglect  her  duty  so  much. 

She  sternly  put  away  her  beads  as  she  walked  down 
the  stairs.  She  must  keep  her  eyes  about  her.  Not  that 
she  ever  saw  anything  till  after  the  harm  was  done. 
She  turned  back  with  a  frown  from  the  step  of  the  door 
leading  to  the  terrace.  Flowers  were  an  indulgence, 
and  she'd  have  to  give  them  up.  She  passed  several 
nuns,  their  eyes  demurely  downcast.  Having  given  so 
much  to  God,  if  they  had  only  given  a  little  more !  They 
committed  none  of  the  grosser  sins,  of  course,  and  had 
made  great  sacrifices,  but  if  they  didn't  squabble  so, 
what  a  blessing  it  would  be !  It  seemed  as  if  grace 
sharpened  the  tongue  in  some  natures,  made  them  what 
might  almost  be  called  spiteful,  if  one  weren't  sure  that 
it  must  be  all  quite  unconscious.  Even  holiness  was  a 
mystery  in  its  manifestations. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  she  said,  in  gentle  reproof,  to 
an  orphan  who  was  leaning  idly  on  a  long-handled 
polisher. 

"Helping  Susy,  ma'am." 

"And  what  is  Susy  doing?" 

"Nothing,  ma'am." 

She  stood  at  the  reception-room  door  and  watched 
eight  orphans  sitting  on  their  heels  in  a  close  circle  en- 
gaged in  eager,  whispered  discussion. 

"Old  Reverend  Mother  never  sees  a  thing,"  one  said 
disdainfully. 

"Busy,  children?"  she  asked,  with  the  little  irony  she 
could  bring  herself  to  use. 

"Polishing  the  floor,  ma'am,"  they  said,  in  chorus. 

In  the  corridor  three  novices  were  busily  dusting  one 
picture,  with  an  absorption  the  task  didn't  seem  to  de- 


274  Vocations 

mand.  She  passed  on  with  a  sigh.  If  they  would  only 
not  practice  these  small  deceptions.  Rules  and  regula- 
tions tempted  the  young.  This  thought  led  her  too  far, 
and  she  put  it  aside  hastily.  They  broke  small  rules  like 
the  rule  of  silence,  but  they  wouldn't  break  the  bigger 
rules.  .  .  . 

She  met  Winnie  at  the  entrance  to  the  covered  pas- 
sageway leading  to  the  school. 

"How  are  you  getting  on,  child?"  she  asked,  as  they 
walked  on  together. 

"Oh,  beautifully,  Reverend  Mother.  I  feel  wonderfully 
strengthened  by  my  vows." 

"Hum.    Has  Kitty  said  anything  to  you?" 

Winnie  hesitated,  but  plumped,  "No,  Reverend  Moth- 
er," candidly.  "Is  there  anything?"  she  added. 

"I  hope  you'll  be  a  good  nun,"  Reverend  Mother  said, 
breaking  a  long  silence,  as  they  entered  the  hall  of  the 
school-house. 

"How  could  I  be  anything  else,  dear  Reverend 
Mother,  with  all  the  blessings  that  surround  me?"  Win- 
nie said  warmly,  but  with  a  slight  tinge  of  reproach. 
"You  need  have  no  fear  of  me,  dearest  Reverend 
Mother." 

"God  bless  you,  child.  I  hope  not,  I  hope  not."  Rev- 
erend Mother  gave  a  pained  smile  as  she  noticed  Sister 
Eulalie's  rapid  glance,  her  frown,  her  perceptible  stiffen- 
ing and  immediate  absorption  in  her  class. 

"Reverend  Mother,  Sister,"  Winnie  said,  rushing  for- 
ward. 

"Oh!"  Sister  Eulalie  said,  with  a  start  of  surprise, 
"Stand  up,  children,  in  honour  of  Reverend  Mother." 

Reverend  Mother  motioned  them  back  to  their  seats. 

"This  is  indeed  an  unexpected  honour,  Reverend 
Mother,  dear,"  Sister  Eulalie  said  through  her  teeth.  "The 
children  sometimes  ask  'What  has  become  of  Reverend 
Mother?'  I  explain  to  them  that  naturally  you  are  busy 
over  the  new  flower-beds.  They  are  too  young  to  un- 
derstand that  a  Reverend  Mother  has  so  many  impor- 


Vocations  275 

tant  duties.  They  upbraid  me  for  being  about  to  leave 
them  after  so  many  sweet  years.  As  if  I  would  do  any- 
thing so  cruel  of  my  own  accord!  I  try  to  explain  that 
it  is  your  will  and  God's ;  but  the  poor  wee  mites  aren't 
as  consoled  as  they  might  be.  Won't  you  have  a  seat, 
dearest  Reverend  Mother?  You  must  find  standing 
very  trying  at  your  age." 

"Don't  let  me  interrupt  your  work,  Sister,"  Reverend 
Mother  said,  making  an  effort  not  to  betray  in  her  voice 
the  wriggle  of  the  worm. 

Sister  Eulalie  sniffed.  "Read,  Pat  Rafter.  Let  us 
show  dear  Reverend  Mother  that  we  don't  spend  our 
time  in  idleness." 

Reverend  Mother  listened  for  a  while,  said  a  few 
words  to  the  assistants,  Sister  Anastasia  and  Sister  Lau- 
rence, and  made  her  way  towards  the  senior  school.  She 
sought  refuge  in  her  beads,  but,  remembering  her  reso- 
lution, dropped  them  suddenly.  Was  she  right  in  changing 
Sister  Eulalie?  Where,  after  all,  was  she  likely  to  do 
less  harm  than  in  the  infant  school? 

She  hadn't  solved  the  question  when  she  entered  one 
of  the  senior  class-rooms.  The  children  stood  up,  but 
Sister  Thomasine  rang  them  back  into  their  seats  at 
once. 

"Visitors  are  such  a  nuisance — always  interfering 
with  work,"  she  said,  with  a  bleak  smile. 

"Could  you  fit  in  Eulalie?"  Reverend  Mother  asked 
timidly. 

"I  couldn't.  There  are  limits Why,  yes,  I  can. 

Anything  to  move  her  from  messing  about  in  the  hall 
with  visitors.  To  give  her  her  due  she  can  sew.  A 
back  room  where  she'll  see  nobody." 

"She'll  be  troublesome,"  Reverend  Mother  said  apolo- 
getically, but  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Not  to  me,"  said  Sister  Thomasine  grimly. 

Reverend  Mother  sighed,  "I  wish  they  made  you  Rev- 
erend Mother." 

"God  forbid.     Anyhow,  they  won't.     They  know  I'd 


276  Vocations 

send  half  of  them  packing  and  make  the  rest  work.  By 
the  way,  that's  not  a  bad  worker  you  sent  me  to-day. 
She  started  in  well — no  nonsense  about  her.  She  has  the 
makings  of  a  good  nun  in  her,  Sister  Catherine.  But 
we've  wasted  enough  time.  I  must  go  back  to  my  work. 
What  does  that  silly  Calixta  mean  by  rushing  in  and 
disturbing  my  school  like  this?" 

Reverend  Mother  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Your  breakfast,  Reverend  Mother,  dearest,"  Mother 
Calixta  whispered  breathlessly.  "I've  only  just  heard. 
Not  even  a  cup  of  tea !  Why,  you  must  be  starving." 

"No  wonder  the  novices  have  no  sense,"  Sister  Thom- 
asine  said,  with  a  frown  at  the  nearest  class,  in  which 
a  novice  was  struggling  with  the  divided  attention  of 
the  girls  who  were  trying  to  listen  to  the  whispered  con- 
versation of  the  nuns. 

"Find  Michael  for  me,  Calixta,"  Reverend  Mother  said 
moving  hastily  towards  the  door.  "I  want  to  consult 
you  both.  Something  dreadful  has  happened." 

"But  your  breakfast — your  breakfast?"  Calixta  said 
anxiously,  when  they  reached  the  hall. 

"Run  on,  child.  Meet  me  under  the  yew  tree,"  Rev- 
erend Mother  said  sharply. 

Calixta  hurried  away  offended.  On  the  terrace  Rev- 
erend Mother,  stooping  down  to  examine  a  flower-bed, 
tried  to  avoid  Sister  Gregory.  But  Sister  Gfregory 
rushed  towards  her  and  exclaimed: 

"Oh,  Reverend  Mother,  it's  all  over  the  convent  that 
you  have  been  in  the  schools.  The  dear  orphans  will  be 
deadly  jealous  if  you  don't  come  and  see  them.  I  want 
you  to  admire  the  new  scapulars  they're  making.  They'll 
be  such  a  help  to  them  when  they  go  out  into  the  world. 
Blue — the  Immaculate  Conception.  They'll  wear  them 
in  addition  to  the  brown,  of  course." 

"Another  time,  another  time."  Reverend  Mother 
made  her  escape  with  a  weary  smile.  She  ought  to  go 
to  the  orphanage,  but  she  couldn't  face  it  this  morning. 
Some  day  she'd  have  to  look  into  it  closely.  ...  So 


Vocations  277 

many  of  the  children  went  to  the  bad  when  they  left  the 
convent.  Everything  seemed  such  a  failure  to-day.  Even 
the  flowers  seemed  less  attractive.  She  fingered  her 
scissors  and  beads  restlessly  and  sank,  exhausted,  into  a 
chair. 

"Not  one  word  till  you've  had  this."  Mether  Michael 
firmly  held  out  a  small  tray  on  which  was  a  cup  of  tea 
and  two  thin  slices  of  bread  and  butter. 

"Drink  it,  dear,"  Mother  Calixta,  hovering  in  the  back- 
ground, said  with  emotion. 

Reverend  Mother  took  the  cup  and  sipped  the  tea 
slowly.  There  was  an  explanation  to  make,  and  she  was 
no  good  at  explaining.  They  would  ask  questions  which 
she  couldn't  answer.  She  lingered  over  the  bread  and 
butter,  her  eyes  fixed  thoughtfully  on  the  ground.  But 
she  was  only  shirking  thought.  What  was  the  use  of 
thinking  out  the  unintelligible. 

"What  is  it,  dearest  Reverend  Mother?"  Calixta  asked 
eagerly,  taking  a  seat  beside  the  old  nun  as  she  finished 
the  last  mouthful. 

Mother  Michael  took  the  tray  and  put  it  on  the 
ground,  drew  forward  a  chair  and  sat  down.  Reverend 
Mother  shook  some  crumbs  off  her  dress  and  said  with 
a  moan: 

"Kitty  Curtin — Sister  Catherine  wants  to  leave  the 
convent." 

Mother  Calixta  flushed  a  deep  red.  "It's  not  my  fault. 
Indeed,  it  isn't,  Reverend  Mother.  She  got  every  in- 
struction. But  she  was  always  reserved  and  deep  and 
wouldn't  open  her  heart  to  me.  The  Sisters  will  say 
things,  but  it's  not  my  fault.  You  won't  blame  me,  Rev- 
erend Mother?" 

Her  voice  trembled  and  she  clutched  the  old  nun's 
arm  appealingly.  Reverend  Mother  shook  her  off 
gently.  .  .  .  Should  she  have  to  change  Calixta,  too? 
And  who  was  there  to  put  in  her  place  ? 

"There,  there,  don't  cry.  It's  all  my  fault.  I  don't 
blame  anyone  but  myself,"  Reverend  Mother  said,  with 


278  Vocations 

a  timid  look  at  Michael,  who  was  frowning  at  the 
gravel.  "What  are  we  to  do,  Michael?"  she  added  feebly. 

"This  must  be  stopped,"  Michael  said,  with  decision. 
"Our  whole  financial  arrangements  would  be  upset.  It's 
not  only  that  we'd  have  to  give  up  her  dot.  With  the 
two  girls  here  there  is  the  whole  of  the  Curtin  money  to 
look  forward  to ;  but  with  Kitty  out  we'd  probably  never 
see  another  penny.  You  must  act,  and  act  firmly,  Rev- 
erend Mother.  It  means  peace  of  mind  or  anxiety  for 
years  to  come." 

"I  never  cared  much  for  her,"  Mother  Calixta  said, 
with  an  air  of  parading  her  own  virtue. 

"Can't  we  leave  money  out  of  it?"  Reverend  Mother 
groaned.  "It's  the  poor  girl's  soul  that  matters." 

"Souls  are  all  very  well  in  their  own  place,  but  you 
can't  run  a  convent  without  money,"  Michael  said,  add- 
ing with  a  spice  of  malice,  "and  it  was  you  who  would 
have  the  new  chapel,  Reverend  Mother." 

"I  agree  with  dearest  Reverend  Mother.  You  always 
bring  your  horrid  money  into  everything,  Michael,"  Ca- 
lixta protested.  "What  hurts  me  is  the  girl's  wickedness 
in  daring  even  to  think  of  throwing  away  the  graces  of 
a  nun's  life." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  said  Mother  Michael  curtly. 

"I'm  a  miserable  woman,"  Reverend  Mother  said, 
looking  around,  as  if  seeking  some  means  of  escape. 

"It's  a  desperate  business."  Mother  Michael  thought- 
fully rubbed  her  sharp  chin  with  the  middle  finger  of  her 
right  hand.  "Her  dot  is  as  good  as  spent  already.  I 
suppose  there's  no  fear  of  that  little  goose  Winnie  go- 
ing?" she  suddenly  asked  Calixta. 

Calixta  frowned.  "You've  no  discrimination  in  souls, 
Michael.  And  I'm  not  the  only  one  who's  remarked  it. 
Dearest  Winnie — a  model  novice  and  a  model  nun !" 

"Then,  if  it's  put  properly  to  him  Tom  Curtin  may  not 
ask  back  Kitty's  money,"  Michael  said,  in  a  tone  of  re- 
lief. "If  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst  that  would  be 
something  to  fall  back  on.  Even  half  of  it  wouldn't  be 


Vocations  279 

too  bad.  I  hope  the  bishop  won't  interfere  too  much  at' 
the  money  end.  He's  so  keen  that  he  puts  people  off. 
You  are  the  person  for  that,  Reverend  Mother.  Indif- 
ference to  money  is  one  of  the  best  assets  in  things  of 
the  kind.  But  perhaps  we're  making  mountains  out  of 
molehills,"  she  added  cheerfully.  "I  have  known  many 
a  nun  who  wanted  to  leave  who's  still  wearing  the  veil. 
What  has  happened?" 

But  Reverend  Mother  had  got  hold  of  her  beads  and 
was  lost  to  the  world. 

"You  haven't  told  us  what's  at  the  bottom  of  all  this — 
what  Kitty  said?"  Michael  repeated  more  loudly,  shak- 
ing Reverend  Mother's  veil. 

"The  poor  girl — the  poor,  miserable  girl.  And  she  as 
happy  over  it  as  if  she  was  doing  God's  will.  She — but 
I'd  better  begin  at  the  beginning." 

She  told  the  interview  simply,  but  with  frequent  re- 
flections on  her  own  unworthiness  and  lack  of  spiritual 
understanding. 

"That's  all,  I  think,"  she  wound  up  sadly.  "I  never 
felt  so  helpless.  Can  either  of  you  throw  any  light  on 
it?" 

"I  never  heard  of  such  wickedness.  Just  as  if  I  had 
never  lectured  her  on  our  Holy  Rule,"  Calixta  said  in- 
dignantly. "I  must  say  I  always  suspected  her — she's  so 
secretive — never  ingenuous  and  open  like  darling  Win- 
nie. And  to  wait  till  after  her  profession — just  as  if  she 
intended  to  strike  a  blow  at  me.  I  may  have  been  a  lit- 
tle cold  to  her  in  the  past — I  admit  that.  There  is  just 
one  chance.  I  might  try  and  be  nice  to  her — appeal  to 
her  better  feelings." 

Reverend  Mother  stared  at  the  eager,  appealing  face, 
as  if  she  had  seen  it  for  the  first  time.  Why  had  she  got 
Calixta  made  novice-mistress?  Because  she  liked  her 
face  and  her  childish  ways  ? 

"I  never  before  felt  such  a  fool,  Michael,"  she  said. 

"It's  a  bad  business — worse  than  I  thought,"  Michael 
agreed,  with  a  wry  smile.  "I'd  face  even  the  loss  of  the 


280  Vocations 

money  'if  I  thought  the  poor  girl  was  going  to  be  happy. 
But  she's  not.  She's  only  exchanging  one  illusion  for 
another.  I'll  do  my  best  to  make  her  stay." 

"The  world  is  coming  to  an  end  the  day  Mother 
Michael  gives  up  caring  about  money/'  Father  Brady 
called  out  from  some  distance,  as  if  to  give  warning  of 
his  approach. 

"He  needn't  be  told  yet.  He'd  only  be  sarcastic  with 
me,"  Mother  Calixta  whispered,  blushing  prettily. 

"As  for  illusions,  sure  they're  what  ye  all  live  on,  God 
bless  ye.  Don't  stir,  Reverend  Mother,  I'll  be  glad  to 
rest  my  legs,"  he  continued,  pulling  a  chair  towards  the 
group. 

"I'm  sorry  about  your  brother,"  Mother  Michael  whis- 
pered. "Father  Dunne  told  me." 

"I  never  heard,"  Reverend  Mother  said. 

"Poor,  dear  Father  Brady,  what  you  must  be  feeling," 
Mother  Calixta  sympathized.  "May  God  in  His  infinite 
mercy  give  him  rest  and  peace." 

"Poor  Tom — he  went  off  this  morning,"  the  priest  said 
hurriedly.  "What  a  nice  shady  place  ye  have  here  for 
managing  the  affairs  of  state." 

"The  Sisters  will  pray  for  him,"  said  Reverend 
Mother,  interrupting  a  prayer  which  she  had  already 
begun. 

"Thank  ye,  thank  ye.  A  prayer'll  do  no  one  any  harm. 
What's  ye'er  best  news?" 

"A  very  great  trouble,"  Reverend  Mother  said,  with 
a  sigh.  "I'm  glad  you  came.  You  may  be  able  to  help 
us." 

The  priest  said  an  almost  inaudible  "Pheu!"  and 
looked  stonily  at  the  gravel. 

"One  of  the  Sisters  wants  to  leave." 

"Ah !" 

"It's  a  great  blow  to  us.  One  of  the  young  Curtins — 
Kitty." 

The  priest  started.  "You  mean  Winnie?"  he  said, 
with  a  puzzled  frown. 


Vocations  281 

Reverend  Mother  shook  her  head.  "Poor  Winnie  is 
quite  settled  down.  No,  unfortunately  it's  Kitty." 

Father  Brady  took  off  his  silk  hat  and  mopped  his 
brow.  "The  poor  thing,  the  poor  thing.  Well,  if  that 
doesn't  bang  Banagher." 

His  eyes  gleamed  as  he  replaced  his  red  and  yellow 
handkerchief  in  the  crown  of  his  hat.  "Tis  you're  the 
great  hand  at  rearing  novices,  Mother  Calixta,"  he  said 
fiercely,  clapping  the  battered  hat  askew  on  his  head. 

"I  did  everything  to  lead  her  to  grace,"  Mother  Ca- 
lixta defended  herself.  "I  admit  she  deceived  me,  though 
I  always  had  my  suspicions — she  was  so  unresponsive 
to  affection.  So  unlike  darling  Winnie,  who  was  an  ex- 
ample to  the  noviceship." 

"'Tis  you're  the  great  judge  entirely,  glory  be  to  God," 
he  said  moodily.  "What  a  hearty  laugh  God  must  have 
over  the  whole  thing  now  and  agin — not  that  it  isn't 
enough  to  make  a  devil  cry.  Well,  well.  Tell  me  about 
the  poor  girl,  Reverend  Mother.  What's  at  the  back  of 
the  little  fool's  head?" 

He  listened,  drawing  circles  and  triangles  on  the 
gravel  with  the  tip  of  his  umbrella. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I'm  in  a  fog — up  against  a 
blank  wall.  What  are  we  to  do?"  Reverend  Mother 
ended  with  a  moan. 

"We've  tied  the  poor  girl  up  in  a  nice  knot,"  the  priest 
said.  "We  all  have  a  lot  to  answer  for." 

"We  showed  her  the  way  to  perfection — I'm  sure  I 
did  my  very  best  in  that — and  she's  wilfully  rejecting  it. 
It's  unfair  to  tax  us  with  responsibility,"  said  Mother 
Calixta  primly. 

"Can't  you  suggest  anything,  Father?"  Reverend 
Mother  asked. 

"Sorra  bit.  The  harm  is  done  now.  If  ye  don't  let 
her  out  she'll  have  a  bad  time.  And  if  ye  let  her  out 
with  that  vow  tied  round  her  neck,  she'll  likely  have 
worse." 

"If  only  one  knew  what  to  do,"  Reverend  Mother 


282  V  ocations 

said.  "May  God  guide  us  to  what  is  right.  But  will 
she  stay  if  we  try  to  keep  her?" 

"Now  that  you  ask  me  I'm  afeard  she  won't,"  the 
priest  said.  "She's  a  stubborn  girl.  She  defied  me  in 
coming  in  and  she'll  likely  do  the  same  about  going 
out." 

"She  won't  disobey  his  lordship.  His  persuasive  elo- 
quence would  move  a  heart  of  stone.  And  I'll  get  the 
novices  to  pray.  I'll  pray  for  her  myself,  though  she 
hasn't  shown  any  consideration  for  my  feelings," 
Mother  Calixta  said. 

"You  must  do  your  best  to  make  her  stay,  Father 
Brady,"  said  Mother  Michael,  in  a  business-like  tone. 
"You  can  guess  yourself  the  loss  she'd  be  to  us  if  she 
goes.  Put  everything  straight  to  her — I'm  going  to. 
If  she  has  made  a  mistake  she  must  grin  and  bear  it. 
What  has  she  to  go  out  to?  She'd  be  like  a  prisoner  let 
out  on  a  ticket-of-leave  with  a  life  sentence  hanging 
over  her.  Her  own  mother  would  be  down  on  her. 
People  will  think  she  has  done  something  dreadful.  If 
she  were  the  greatest  saint  alive  and  put  off  the  veil, 
she'd  be  looked  on  as  a  criminal." 

"Dress  makes  the  saint  and  want  of  it  the  sinner,"  the 
priest  hummed. 

"It's  to  our  advantage,  anyway,  that  we  hide  our  sins 
and  our  squabbles  behind  our  habits  and  our  high  walls," 
Mother  Michael  said,  with  a  shrug.  "I  don't  know  what 
whim  has  come  over  her.  If  it's  love  it  will  wear  away. 
Work  on  her  sense  of  honour.  She  has  given  her  word 
and  she  ought  to  keep  it.  What  is  a  little  pain?  In  or 
out  she'll  have  that.  And  there  are  fewer  to  see  it  here. 
And  pain,  too,  wears  off.  She's  not  sentimental,  thank 
God,  and  I'll  see  that  she  gets  plenty  of  work.  You'll 
find  she'll  be  a  sensible  nun  one  day." 

"I'll  see.  I'll  see.  Ye're  wonderful  people,  God  bless 
ye."  The  priest  screwed  an  eye  to  examine  the  branches 
of  the  tree. 

"Mother   Michael  puts   it  all  on  too  low  a  plane," 


Vocations  283 

Mother  Calixta  said,  with  a  toss  of  her  little  head.  "I 
always  appeal  to  the  novices'  good  feeling.  Sister  Cath- 
erine unfortunately  hasn't  much,  but  we  might  rouse  it. 
I'd  put  before  her  the  pain  she's  giving  to  dear  Reverend 
Mother  and  all  the  Sisters — I  leave  myself  out  though  I 
feel  it  intensely.  And  there's  the  Blessed  Virgin,  and 
her  guardian  angel,  and  all  the  saints,  not  to  speak  of 
our  Divine  Lord  Himself.  She's  making  them  all  blush 
with  shame." 

"Convents,  convents!"  Father  Brady  gave  a  covert 
glance  at  Reverend  Mother,  whose  body  swayed  gently, 
her  lips  moving  in  silent  prayer,  as  her  fingers  slipt  past 
bead  after  bead  in  rapid  succession.  "I  suppose  they 
have  a  meaning?"  he  added,  with  a  shrug. 

"I  often  wonder  myself.  But  a  bursar  has  to  keep  the 
place  going,"  Mother  Michael  said,  with  a  grin.  "You're 
always  too  hard  on  us,  Father  Pat.  And  if  you  can't 
keep  that  obstinate  girl,  look  out  for  another  postulant 
for  us  with  three  or  four  thousand,  or  my  books  won't 
balance  this  year." 

"Oh,  you'll  get  plenty,"  he  said  morosely.  "Mad  as  ye 
all  are,  the  world  is  madder  still.  It's  the  habit  I  sup- 
pose that  throws  such  a  glamour  over  ye.  I'd  feel  it 
myself  if  I  didn't  know  ye  so  well.  But  it's  past  a  joke 
to  be  tying  up  young  girls  before  they  know  their  own 
minds.  I  wish  to  God  ye  let  Kitty  Curtin  alone  and  didn't 
induce  her  in  here — and  many  another,  too." 

"I  never  heard  such  talk,"  Mother  Calixta  said.  "It 
was  God  who  led  her  in — God  and  her  own  free  choice." 

"As  you're  so  deep  in  His  confidence  you  might  find 
out  whether  He  isn't  leading  her  out  again,"  said  the 
priest  dryly. 

"We  all  know  that's  impossible.  It's  the  devil  and 
her  own  wicked  will,"  Mother  Calixta  affirmed. 

"Q.E.D.,  as  we  used  to  say  when  we  did  the  Asses' 
Bridge  and  proved  that  two  and  two  made  four  and  the 
like,"  the  priest  said.  "I'm  only  an  old  man,  Mother 
Calixta,  with  nothing  like  your  knowledge  of  God  and 


284  Vocations 

the  devil ;  still,  I  have  picked  up  a  grain  or  two  of  some 
sort  of  knowledge  of  men  and  women.  Now  if  I  had 
my  way  I'd  not  let  a  woman  enter  a  convent  till  she  was 
thirty,  anyway — forty  or  forty-five  wouldn't  be  too  high 
for  some.  Age  is  the  best  test  of  a  real  vocation.  And 
even  then " 

"Vocation?"  Reverend  Mother  said  sharply.  "Are  you 
speaking  of  her  vocation  ?  I'm  sure  Kitty " 

"He's  been  saying  horrid  things,  dearest  Reverend 
Mother,"  Mother  Calixta  interrupted.  "Speaking  of  vo- 
cations as  if  they  were  something  human  and  not  the 
divine  call  they  are." 

"Oh,  no,  I  didn't  say  that.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  say 
there  is  no  divine  call,  and  that  many  a  woman  isn't 
capable  of  any  sacrifice  in  answering  it.  What  I  meant 
was  that  I'd  rather  run  the  risk  of  keeping  women  with 
vocations  out  of  convents  than  let  in,  or  coax  in,  girls 
with  no  sort  of  vocation  at  all — the  very  opposite,  may- 
be." 

"We  are  very  careful,"  Reverend  Mother  said  nerv- 
ously. 

"There's  Kitty— and  the  rest,"  he  said. 

"I  sometimes  think  if  they  had  more  work  to  do — if 
we  could  keep  more  of  them  busy.  If  we  got  up  a  sec- 
ondary school  or  some  industry,"  Reverend  Mother  sug- 
gested, in  vague  distress. 

"There's  something  in  that,"  Mother  Michael  brightly 
agreed.  "Some  convents  make  a  lot  of  money  that: 
way." 

"I'm  afeard  you  can't  dodge  human  nature  by  making 
lace,  or  teaching  French,"  the  priest  said,  with  a  shrug. 
"And  the  more  you  take  on  yourselves  the  more  nuns 
you'll  need.  You'll  want  money  for  this  and  that.  It 
would  break  Mother  Michael's  heart  not  to  see  a  voca- 
tion in  any  girl  with  a  few  thousand  pounds.  And 
Mother  Calixta  there  would  play  on  the  feelings  of  a 
turnip  if  it  had  a  suitable  fortune." 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  Reverend  Mother  said,  horrified. 


Vocations  285 

Father  Brady  laughed.  "Perhaps  that  was  a  poor  at- 
tempt at  a  joke.  But  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  I  didn't 
mean  something  even  worse.  There's  something  wrong 
with  the  whole  system.  The  natural  calling  of  women 
is  to  have  children." 

Mother  Calixta  said,  "Oh,"  and  blushed.  Mother 
Michael  smiled  grimly.  Reverend  Mother  shook  her 
head.  "Celibacy  is  the  higher  life,"  she  said  gently. 

The  priest  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "If  you  stopped  at 
that  I'd  be  satisfied.  But  you  know  well,  Reverend 
Mother,  all  nuns  don't  stop  at  that.  Ye  hide  from  grown 
girls  the  meaning  of  their  natural  functions.  They  often 
come  into  a  convent  never  dreaming  what's  before  'em. 
It's  nuns  and  not  me  that  make  out  a  vocation  to  be 
something  natural.  Girls  are  supposed  to  be  some  sort 
of  sexless  angels.  Their  bodies  are  something  degraded 
and  vicious  that  are  outside  them.  Instead  of  knowl- 
edge ye  feed  them  with  hints  and  insinuations.  Things 
that  no  woman  can  avoid  appear  to  be  mortal  sins. 
Many  nuns  live  in  a  haze  of  ignorance  and  religiosity. 
They  can't  distinguish  vice  from  virtue,  what  can  be  con- 
trolled from  what  can't  be  controlled.  In  the  end  any- 
thing might  happen.  An  extreme  case  is  a  sexual  per- 
vert who  firmly  believed  she  was  a  saint." 

"It  is  not  true.  It  is  not  true.  I  feel  it's  not  true," 
Reverend  Mother  said  appealingly. 

"We  never  think  of  these  things,  much  less  discuss 
them,"  said  Mother  Calixta.  "Nuns  are  specially  pro- 
tected. I  get  special  novenas  said  for  my  novices  as  a 
shield  of  holy  purity  and  they  never  fail — that  is,  hardly 
ever.  There  may  be  an  occasional  case  of  obsession  by 
the  devil." 

"Nuns  aren't  all  as  ignorant  as  all  that,"  Mother 
Michael  said,  with  a  thoughtful  frown. 

"They  aren't,"  Father  Brady  said  grimly.  "Thank  God 
you'll  find  as  good  women  in  a  convent  as  out  of  it. 
Women  with  their  eyes  open  who  choose  a  hard  life  and 
live  it  decently.  But  I'm  thinking  of  them  that  come  in 


286  F  o  cations 

ignorant,  and  of  others,  whether  they're  ignorant  or  not, 
who  wake  up  after  they  come  in.  Some  of  'em  get  on 
all  right.  But  the  rest — well,  well,  it's  a  topsy-turvy 
world." 

"Poor  things.  Poor  things,"  Reverend  Mother  said, 
distressed.  "But  God  is  by  their  side.  He  always  helps. 
They  have  only  to  pray.  It  may  be  a  hard  struggle,  but 
they  overcome  themselves." 

"Always?"  the  priest  said. 

"Don't  remind  me,"  Reverend  Mother  appealed.  "I 
try  not  to  think  of  it.  Life  is  such  a  mystery.  I  could 
"have  done  more.  I've  been  too  careless.  If  only  I  had 
been  more  watchful.  But  they  all  seemed  to  have  such 
good  vocations.  I  always  knew  I  wasn't  fit  for  my  of- 
fice." 

"If  you  had  a  hundred  eyes  on  you  you  couldn't  alter 
people's  natures,"  the  priest  said.  "As  long  as  you  have 
convents  these  things'll  go  on.  You  can  prevent  this 
and  that,"  he  smiled.  "By  locking  up  the  convent  well 
at  night  you  could  stop  nuns  from  going  out  to  meet 
people.  But  what  good'll  that  do  you?  It's  what's  go- 
ing on  in  their  minds  and  wills  that  matters.  And  who 
knows  that?  Do  we  know  ourselves,  let  alone  know 
anyone  else?" 

"I  know  my  novices,"  Mother  Calixta  said,  with  confi- 
dence. 

The  priest  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

"We  must  only  do  the  best  we  can.  We  can't  shut 
up  the  convent,"  said  Mother  Michael  dryly.  "On  the 
whole,  we  do  very  well." 

"But  there  are  real  vocations.  I  know  it,  I  know  it," 
Reverend  Mother  said. 

"There  are,  and  in  Drumbawn  convent,  too,  thank 
God,"  the  priest  agreed.  "But  you  don't  give  a  girl  a 
vocation  by  telling  her  she  has  one,  or  by  putting  a 
black  veil  over  her  head.  How  many  of  the  young  pos- 
tulants that  come  to  you  share  your  ideal  of  a  vocation, 
Reverend  Mother  ?  They  come  in  for  a  hundred  and  one 


V  ocations  287 

reasons:  because  some  foolish  nuns  have  put  the  idea 
into  their  heads ;  because  they're  in  the  way  at  home 
and  it's  easier  to  persuade  them  that  they  have  a  voca- 
tion than  to  get  anyone  to  marry  them ;  because  a 
mother  or  father  wants  to  make  a  vicarious  sacrifice  for 
their  own  sins ;  because  a  vain  priest  wants  to  boast  of 
the  number  of  vocations  he  has  made ;  because  of  the 
sort  of  education  you  give  girls  that  makes  them  bored 
with  their  own  homes  and  unfits  them  for  making  one 
for  themselves.  There  are  as  many  reasons  as  there  are 
nuns,  and  most  of  them  are  wrong  ones.  And  at  the 
end  of  them  all  an  illusion.  The  wonder  is  that  things 
aren't  worse  than  they  are." 

"I'm  sure  it's  not  as  bad  as  that.  I'm  sure  you're 
wrong.  If  only  there  was  another  Reverend  Mother!" 
Reverend  Mother  lamented. 

"Eulalie?"  Father  Brady  said,  with  a  shrug. 

"No,  no.  She's  not  quite "  Reverend  Mother  said 

feebly.  "But  God  will  be  sure  to  choose  the  right  nun. 
Someone  who " 

"Can  work  miracles,"  the  priest  interrupted,  pushing 
back  his  chair,  as  if  to  relieve  his  feeling.  "I'll  have  to 
go  now.  There's  no  hurry  yet,  I  suppose,  with  Kitty 
Curtin?  Some  day  when  I'm  less  moidered  I'll  come  and 
speak  to  her.  If  I  had  an  ounce  of  sense  I'd  let  her  be. 
We're  all  only  the  blind  leading  the  blind." 

The  three  nuns  watched  him  cross  the  terrace,  his 
head  bent  and  his  feet  dragging  from  age  and  fatigue. 

"I  never  heard  such  talk.  Sheer  impertinence.  Talk- 
ing of  nuns  as  if  they  were  ordinary  women,"  Mother 
Calixta  said  angrily. 

"I  don't  know.  Sometimes  I  have  doubts.  But  he 
must  be  wrong.  A  few,  perhaps,  but  oh,  not  so  many. 
I  don't  know.  I  don't  know.  Yesterday  I  could  have 
sworn  by  Kitty,"  Reverend  Mother  muttered  to  her 
beads. 

"I  must  go  and  see  after  the  dinner."  Mother  Michael 
looked  at  her  watch.  "I'll  give  that  foolish  girl  a  talking 


288  Vocations 

to  and  try  and  teach  her  common  sense.  It  must  be  his 
brother's  death  that  has  upset  poor  Father  Pat.  We 
must  take  things  as  we  find  them  and  keep  going.  But 
what  the  convent  would  be  under  Eulalie  I  can't  even 
imagine.  I'll  put  a  spoke  in  that  lady's  wheel." 

"We  must  be  charitable,"  Reverend  Mother  sighed. 

"There  are  limits  even  to  charity,"  Mother  Michael 
said,  with  a  firm  setting  of  her  lips,  as  she  walked 
briskly  away. 


Chapter  jp 

FOR  a  week  Kitty  was  reasoned  with  and 
prayed  for.  The  orphans  and  the  nuns  made 
novenas  for  a  very  special  intention.  Only 
the  Mothers  were  supposed  to  know  that  she 
wanted  to  leave  the  convent,  yet,  in  twenty-four  hours, 
every  nun  and  novice  knew  at  first,  second,  or  third 
hand.  She  felt  she  was  the  subject  of  discussion  in  every 
group.  Nuns  waylaid  her  under  the  stairs,  in  the  cloak- 
room and  offered  advice  or  condemnation.  But  mostly 
they  showed  an  excited  curiosity  and  resented  her  re- 
fusal to  discuss  herself.  It  was  no  use  for  her,  they 
said,  to  try  and  hide  what  was  up.  They  all  knew :  she 
was  going  to  join  a  strict  contemplative  Order;  she  had 
done  something  unmentionable ;  she  was  going  to  run 
away  with  the  doctor,  with  both  the  school  inspectors, 
with  the  orphanage  inspector,  with  the  new  organist, 
with  whom  she  had  been  seen  speaking  twice  in  the  day 
of  her  profession.  The  loathsome  Clothilde  made  over- 
tures of  friendship ;  said  one  was  a  fool  to  leave  the  con- 
vent where  one  could  enjoy  oneself  when  one  knew  one's 
way  round,  just  as  well  as  out  in  the  world,  and  began  a 
lewd  story. 

The  solidarity  of  the  convent  gave  Kitty  a  feeling  of 
helplessness.  Reverend  Mother,  Sister  Eulalie  and  Sis- 
ter Clothilde  were  at  one  in  urging  her  to  remain.  Faith, 
hope,  love,  religion,  purity,  hell,  heaven,  fear,  piety,  hon- 
our, comfort,  public  esteem,  good  luck,  were  all  used  as 
weapons  to  hold  her  in  the  prison  into  which  she  had 
strayed.  Even  Bernard,  who  sympathized  with  her, 
begged  her  not  to  leave.  No  woman  had  the  strength  to 
face  the  isolation,  the  desertion  by  her  relatives  and 
friends,  the  misrepresentations  entailed  by  the  step.  She 
289 


290  Vocations 

once  thought  she  had  the  courage  to  go,  but,  at  the  last 
moment,  it  failed  her.  Every  day  she  wanted  to,  but  she 
knew  now  that  it  was  a  mere  purposeless  wish,  a  daily 
drug  that  soothed  her  for  a  moment  with  hope,  only  to 
plunge  her  almost  at  once  into  a  worse  despair. 

It  was  as  if  everyone  who  spoke  to  her  was  adding  a 
"brick  to  the  opening  through  which  she  hoped  for  re- 
lease. She  had  a  stifling  feeling  as  if  air  was  gradually 
being  withdrawn.  A  heavy  weight  seemed  to  press  her 
down.  She  started  from  her  sleep  at  night  with  a  feel- 
ing that  she  couldn't  breathe.  Some  terror  seemed  to 
await  her  round  the  corner  of  the  shrubbery,  behind  a 
tree.  Yet  beneath  all  this  fear  her  resolution  remained 
firm,  had  even  grown  stronger.  It  was  as  if  she  had  a 
double  personality.  One  side  of  her  could  be  depressed 
by  fear,  responded  to  the  accusations  that  she  was  a  lost 
soul,  that  she  had  offended  God  grievously,  that  she  was 
obsessed  by  the  devil.  But  this  self  was  dominant  only 
when  she  was  semi-conscious,  when  the  other  self, 
newer,  more  active,  was  not  wide  awake.  The  passive 
self  was  weak,  cowardly,  afraid.  It  stored  all  her  old 
memories  of  hell,  of  the  devil,  all  the  fears  of  her  child- 
hood, of  her  youth.  It  was  a  sort  of  trail  in  her  con- 
sciousness. It  was  there  even  when  her  new  self  was  in 
command,  but  with  little  strength  to  worry  or  to  hurt 
her.  She  could  examine  it,  question  its  pretensions  to 
guide  and  rule  her  life,  laugh  at  it.  It  called  itself  her 
conscience,  but  it  was  only  a  collection  of  bogies  with 
which  her  mother,  nuns,  confessors,  had  frightened  her. 
Men  had  made  it  and  not  God.  It  was  something  imposed 
on  her  from  outside,  something  against  nature,  against 
God.  It  tried  to  tie  her  down,  to  put  her  in  unnatural 
bonds,  to  keep  her  in  them  by  terror  and  fears  that  had 
no  real  existence.  It  told  her  she  was  in  sin  when,  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  had  shaken  herself  free  of 
sin ;  that  she  was  offending  God  when  she  knew  she  was 
pleasing  Him. 

For  days  she  oscillated  between  half-conscious   fear 


Vocations  291 

and  a  belief  that  she  was  above  all  fear.  Fears  which 
felt  formidable  faded  away  when  she  thought  them  out. 
Yet  always  they  came  back  to  torment  her  when  her 
mind  was  inactive.  Even  the  warnings  and  advice  of 
the  nuns  which  seemed  so  futile  while  she  listened  to 
them,  made  her  tremble  at  night  when  she  was  half 
asleep. 

Every  day  she  asked  Reverend  Mother  when  the 
bishop  was  coming,  but  was  always  relieved  when  she 
heard  that  he  was  delayed  in  Dublin.  She  was  feverishly 
anxious  that  he  should  come,  yet  she  shrank  from  seeing 
him.  Like  the  others  he  would  ask  explanations  and  not 
listen  to  them.  He  would  judge  her  by  some  set  formula 
and  condemn  her.  Perhaps  he  would  refuse  to  let  her 
go  ?  What  should  happen  then  ?  She  had  a  curious  feel- 
ing of  being  swathed  round  and  round  with  bonds.  They 
crushed  her,  yet  she  felt  free.  Everyone  refused  to  re- 
lease her  and  told  her  she  could  not  release  herself ;  yet 
she  knew  she  could.  She  could  hardly  breathe ;  yet  with 
a  movement  of  her  hands  she  could  tear  away  all  her 
bonds. 

After  the  first  day  Winnie  never  spoke  of  Kitty's 
leaving.  Something  seemed  to  have  happened  to  her. 
She  had  become  quieter  and  more  gentle. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  I  spoke  to  Father  Brady 
about  your  sleep-walking  on  his  way  in  to  see  Reverend 
Mother  the  very  day  it  happened,  and  he  promised  to 
say  nothing  about  it,"  Kitty  said  to  her  one  day. 

"Did  you?  It  doesn't  really  matter,"  Winnie  said 
listlessly. 

"Don't  you  mind  my  going?"  Kitty  asked. 

"Oh,  you  won't  go.  I'm  praying  for  you.  Let  us  say 
a  rosary  now,"  Winnie  said,  with  a  smile. 

If  only  the  others,  too,  let  her  alone.  But  Mother 
Calixta  told  her  at  every  turn  that  she  had  no  heart,  and 
Sister  Thomasine  said  several  times  a  day  that  she  had 
no  sense.  Reverend  Mother  asked  hourly  if  she  had  yet 
heard  the  voice  of  God.  Mother  Michael  gave  her  what 


292  Vocations 

she  called  "a  man  to  man  talk"  every  day.  Sister  Basil 
warned  her  that  the  devil  was  crouching  behind  her. 

They  all  warned  her  of  death  and  hell,  but  what  she 
longed  for  was  life ;  the  life  she  had  never  been  allowed 
to  live.  They  asked  her  to  forget  the  world.  But  she 
longed  for  things  to  remember ;  to  fill  her  empty  heart ; 
even  to  stand  on  a  hilltop,  as  she  had  once  seen  a  woman 
stand  in  a  picture,  her  hair  streaming  in  the  wind,  and 
drink  in,  with  parted  lips  and  glowing  eyes,  the  joy  and 
the  glory  of  life. 

"Go  into  Father  Brady,  dear.  He  may  give  you  some 
light,"  Reverend  Mother  said  one  morning,  with  a  sigh. 
"And  Father  Bernardine  is  coming  this  afternoon  and 
the  bishop  to-morrow." 

"Must  I  see  them  all?"  Kitty  asked,  with  a  shudder. 

"I  can't  believe  you're  bad  at  the  bottom,"  Reverend 
Mother  said  sadly.  "You  mustn't  neglect  any  oppor- 
tunity of  grace.  I  don't  believe  in  pressure,  but  some 
chance  word  may  soften  the  hardness  of  your  heart.  Try 
and  respond,  dear,  Father  Bernardine  is  so  kind — he's 
rushing  down  in  the  middle  of  his  retreat  at  St.  Mar- 
garet's." 

Kitty  smiled  drearily.  What,  she  wondered,  would 
the  nuns  call  pressure?  For  days  every  conceivable 
form  of  pressure  had  been  brought  to  bear  on  her.  She 
had  been  praised  as  a  saint  and  denounced  as  a  sinner; 
reasoned  with,  cajoled,  hectored,  treated  alternately  as  a 
reasonable  being  and  as  an  irresponsible  child. 

She  found  Father  Brady  at  breakfast.  Mother 
Michael,  who  was  in  attendance  on  him,  stood  up  when 
Kitty  entered. 

"I  have  to  go  away  for  a  few  minutes.  See  that  he 
wants  for  nothing,"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  patting  Kitty 
on  the  shoulder  and  pushing  her  into  the  chair  beside 
the  priest. 

Father  Brady  went  on  eating  a  mutton  chop  in  grim 
silence.  He  put  down  his  knife  and  fork  when  he  had 
thoroughly  cleaned  the  bone  and  said  with  a  sigh : 


Vocations  293 

"My  teeth  aren't  as  good  as  they  were.  What's  this 
madness  you're  up  to?  I  hear  they're  bringing  down 
Pete  Donlevy  to  work  a  miracle  on  you.  I  once  thought 
you  were  a  girl  of  some  sense." 

"Shall  I  pour  out  your  tea?" 

"Do,  then.  No — none  of  that  cream.  I  wish  they 
wouldn't  be  skimming  it  off  the  orphan's  milk.  Com- 
mend me  to  nuns  for  that  sort  of  piety.  What's  putting 
it  into  your  head  to  leave  the  convent  where  you  have 
every  comfort  for  this  world  and  the  next?" 

"You  told  me  not  to  come  in." 

"I  did.  And  I'd  tell  you  the  same  to-morrow.  But 
you're  in  now,  and  I  tell  you  not  to  go  out." 

"But  I  have  no  vocation!" 

"You  never  had  one.  What  has  that  got  to  do  with 
it  now?  You're  not  the  first  man  or  woman  that  made 
a  mistake.  You  have  taken  your  vows  and  you'll  have 
to  keep  them.  You're  a  straight  girl  and  you'll  do  your 
best,  I  know.  What  is  forty  or  fifty  years  compared 
with  eternity?" 

"It's  my  life,"  she  said  dully.  She  stared  at  an  en- 
graving on  the  wall — a  straight,  bleak  road,  without 
shelter  or  shade,  stretching  on  and  on  interminably. 

"What  are  we  all  but  leaves  blown  about  in  the  wind?" 
he  said  gently. 

"I  don't  believe  it.  It's  because  you  are  old  and  for- 
get," she  cried.  "I  was  never  alive  till  now.  God  didn't 
give  me  life  to  stifle  it.  You  say  you  knew  I  never  had 
a  vocation.  Didn't  God  know  that  better  than  you? 
Would  you  hold  me  to  a  promise  I  made  through  a  mis- 
take? Is  He  likely  to?" 

"Whist,  girl,"  he  said,  with  a  pained  frown.  "I'm 
sorry  for  you  from  my  heart  out.  There's  the  law  of 
the  Church  and  we  can't  go  agin  that.  It  may  look 
foolish  enough  at  times  and  it  may  be  hard  to  see  the 
meaning  of  it,  but  we  know  the  Holy  Ghost  is  behind 
it." 

"I  don't  believe  God  is  like  that.     I  know  He's  dif- 


294  Vocations 

ferent.  You  make  Him  out  to  be  a  narrow-minded,  ty- 
rannical man,  only  worse.  You  say  He  wants  to  strangle 
me,  but  I  feel  He  wants  me  to  live.  I  can't  explain,  but 
I  know  it,  I  know  it." 

Father  Brady  ran  his  fingers  through  his  thick  hair, 
a  worried  frown  on  his  face.  "That  can  be  all  explained, 
child.  I  wish  I  studied  my  theology  more  and  I  could 
make  it  as  plain  as  A,  B,  C  to  you,"  he  said,  scratching 
his  forehead.  "You're  trenching  on  some  heresy  or 
other,  if  I  could  only  lay  my  hand  on  it.  People  that 
want  to  do  wrong  always  try  to  invent  some  new  kind 
of  a  God.  He's  a  God  of  infinite  love,  of  course,  but 
there  are  things  about  Him  that  we  must  take  on  trust. 
If  He  seems  to  be  hard,  we  may  be  sure  there's  kindness 
behind  it.  And  the  Church  has  the  last  word  on  Him. 
I  admit  it's  a  bit  hard  on  a  girl  to  hold  her  to  vows  she 
took  in  ignorance ;  that,  in  a  way,  she  was  fooled  into 
taking.  I  wish  myself  there  never  was  a  convent  in  the 
world.  They're  foolish  things  at  the  best ;  and,  at  the 
worst,  they  don't  bear  thinking  of.  Still,  a  vow  is  a 
vow  and  we  must  abide  by  the  law  of  the  Church. 
Where  would  we  be  at  all  if  we  didn't  hold  tight  to  its 
infallibility  with  the  power  of  things  it  lays  down  that 
sounds  so  foolish  Be  a  good  girl  now  and  stick  to  the 
cross  you've  made  for  yourself.  Everything'll  be  clear 
to  you  when  you  get  to  heaven.  And  if  you'll  have  to 
suffer  a  little  misery  in  the  convent  itself,  you'd  have  to 
put  up  with  more  outside." 

She  felt  depressed  and  miserable.  Even  Father  Brady 
was  against  her.  When  she  had  freed  her  soul,  had  be- 
gun to  live  for  the  first  time,  they  tried  to  bind  her, 
hand  and  foot.  It  was  as  if  a  snake  was  slowly  coiling 
round  her.  .  .  .  She  stared  at  the  priest,  at  his  kind, 
pippin  face.  A  lark  began  to  sing  over  the  terrace.  She 
watched  it  soar  higher  and  higher  and  disappear,  but 
the  piercing  call  to  her  heart  still  lingered. 

"Outside  it'd  be  the  very  devil,"  the  priest  said  sadly. 

She  half  opened  her  lips  to  drink  in  the  exquisite  sound. 


V  ocations  295 

It  was  life  calling  to  life.  Somewhere  beyond  the  elms 
the  lark  was  still  calling,  "Come  away,  come  away  and 
live."  Through  the  open  window  the  wind  among  the 
leaves  called  her,  and  the  infinite  blue  of  the  sky. 

"Out  there  somewhere  one  could  live,"  she  said,  with 
a  sigh. 

"Your  father  and  mother  will  be  agin  you.  Your 
friends  won't  know  you,  or'll  look  down  on  you.  People 
will  avoid  you.  You  might  just  as  well  be  dead." 

"I  must  live,"  she  said  simply. 

He  dashed  his  cup  and  saucer  aside  impatiently.  The 
cup  rolled'  over  on  the  tablecloth. 

"Is  there  a  man  in  it?"  he  asked  fiercely,  as  he 
mopped  up  the  tea  with  his  napkin. 

She  watched  the  brown  stain  spread  on  the  cloth. 
Was  there?  She  didn't  know.  She  saw  George  Lynch's 
face  take  shape  against  the  white  of  the  cloth.  It  still 
wore  the  understanding  smile.  But  she  had  no  particu- 
lar feeling  for  him  except,  perhaps,  gratitude.  He  was 
the  instrument  that  had  awakened  her  to  life.  He  would 
not  look  down  on  her,  or  avoid  her.  He  could  be  more 
to  her,  perhaps.  But  he  was  not  necessary  to  her  life 
now.  At  least  not  yet. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  with  a  smile. 

"You're  a  romantic  little  fool,"  he  exclaimed  angrily. 
"Remember  the  last  time." 

She  laughed.    "The  convent  has  taught  me  sense." 

"Give  it  a  chance  of  working  a  second  miracle  then," 
he  said  derisively.  "Take  my  word  for  it,  girl,  you'll  sup 
sorrow  if  you  leave  all  this."  He  waved  his  hand,  and 
she  followed  the  movement  with  critical  eyes.  The  shin- 
ing furniture,  the  polished  floor,  the  crude  German  prints 
on  the  cold  walls  had  never  seemed  more  repulsive. 

"I've  been  taking  other  people's  word  for  things  all  my 
life.  I'll  try  following  my  own  judgment  for  once,"  she 
said  bitterly.  "Though  I'm  not  so  sure,"  she  added,  with 
a  smile,  "that  all  the  time  you  haven't  been  telling  me 
to  go." 


296  Vocations 

"No,  no,  no!" 

"But  you've  often  told  me  yourself  what  convents 
are.  They  haven't  changed  because  I  want  to  leave. 
Do  you  want  me  to  be  as  miserable  as  Bernard?  Or  go 
to  the  devil  like  some  of  the  others?" 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  with  a  pained  frown ;  "and  you  know 
well  that  the  bulk  of  'em  are  good  poor  women  enough." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  be  a  'good  poor  woman  enough,'  " 
she  said  derisively.  "You've  often  said  yourself  that 
the  best  of  them  are  half-dead.  They  were  born  half- 
dead,"  she  went  on,  with  growing  anger.  "I  was  born 
alive  and  you  have  all  tried  to  kill  me — not  you,  I  must 
say,  till  now.  My  sort  who  stayed  on  in  the  convent 
are  most  of  them  above  in  the  graveyard.  You  can  see 
their  tombstones — whole  rows  of  them,  just  about  my 
age.  If  I  live  all  you  can  promise  me  is  a  living  death. 
And  you  want  to  put  it  all  down  to  God.  Because  I'm 
not  willing  to  commit  suicide,  you  say  God  wants  me 
to.  I  don't  believe  you." 

She  looked  at  his  drawn,  pained  face,  stopped  sud- 
denly and  burst  into  tears.  "It's  not  you,  Father  Pat. 
It's  only  the  priest  in  you,"  she  said,  with  an  attempt  at 
a  smile.  "You're  too  kind  for  that.  And  God  is  at  least 
as  kind  as  you  are.  It's  all  lies,  lies.  And  if  people  be- 
lieve these  lies  out  in  the  world,  what  do  I  care?  It 
won't  hurt  me  to  be  treated  badly  when  I  know  I'm 
right.  And  even  if  I  have  to  starve,  I'll  die  free." 

"My  God,  my  God!"  the  old  priest  groaned.  "I  wish 
there  wasn't  one  convent  in  the  whole  world.  Don't 
cry,  girl.  Don't  cry." 

She  wiped  her  eyes  with  her  check  handkerchief  and 
smiled  pitifully.  "I'm  only  being  sorry  for  myself  when 
no  one  else  will  be  sorry  for  me.  I'm  really  very  happy," 
she  said  miserably.  "Won't  you  have  more  tea?" 

"Nuns.  Nuns,"  he  said  angrily.  "Do  you  want  to 
choke  me?" 

He  stood  up,  seized  his  hat  and  umbrella  and  fiercely 
frowned  at  her. 


Vocations  297 

"There's  no  changing  you  out  of  this  foolishness?"  he 
said,  rubbing  the  nap  of  his  silk  hat  the  wrong  way  with 
his  sleeve. 

"No." 

"God  help  you  then — and  you'll  need  all  He  can  give 
you.  I  don't  know  which  of  us  is  the  biggest  fool — you 
for  going  or  me  for  trying  to  keep  you.  There,  there. 
Don't  cry  again.  God  bless  you,  and  always  remember 
that  you  have  a  claim  on  me — I  should  have  kept  you  out 
of  this  place  by  main  force.  Wait  till  I  meet  your  mother 
and  Peter  Donlevy !  And  if  they're  too  hard  on  you  at 
home,  come  and  tell  me,  and  I'll  read  the  Riot  Act  to 
your  mother  in  a  way  she  never  heard  it  before.  There, 
there.  What  would  you  thank  me  for?  For  thinking 
you  near  as  big  a  fool  as  myself?  Run  and  see  if  the 
road  is  clear  for  me  to  the  front  door.  If  I  had  to  listen 
to  any  more  nun's  gabble  this  morning  it's  tempted  to 
break  my  umbrella  on  'em  I'd  be." 


Chapter  20 

THE  interview  with  Father  Brady  renewed 
Kitty's  courage.  She  walked  along  the  cor- 
ridor towards  the  chapel  with  a  light  step 
and  a  smiling  face.  She  should  have  at  least 
one  friend.  Two,  for  she  was  sure  that  her  father,  no 
matter  how  he  might  bluster  at  first,  would  never  con- 
demn her.  And  there  was  always  Bessie  Sweetman  who 
had  no  illusions  about  convents. 

"A  moment,  Sister,"  Sister  Evangelist  said  mysteri- 
ously, beckoning  from  the  entrance  hall. 

Kitty's  heart  fell.  There  was  to  be  no  respite.  The 
unceasing  attack  was  to  begin  afresh.  It  had  little  ef- 
fect on  her  resolution,  but  it  was  wearing  her  temper 
very  thin. 

"Come  out  in  the  porch.  Something  overwhelmingly 
important — a  miracle,"  the  old  nun  said,  in  a  hoarse 
whisper.  "We  must  shut  the  door.  I  wouldn't  tell  any- 
one— not  even  Reverend  Mother — it  is  so  dreadful.  A 
revelation !  I  was  on  the  look-out  for  you.  I  saw  Fa- 
ther Brady  go  out.  Poor  man.  I  saw  failure  written 
on  his  face.  Her  heart  will  not  yield  to  human  persua- 
sion, I  felt — not  even  to  a  holy  priest.  She  is  waiting 
for  a  special  communication  from  above.  'Humble  an 
instrument  as  you  are,  you  must  deliver  your  message, 
Evangelist !'  I  said  to  myself.  It  came  in  a  dream  last 
night.  I  saw  you  as  plain  as  you  are  now,  and  a  loath- 
some serpent  with  the  devil  written  all  over  him  was 
creeping  up  your  guimpe — slowly,  slowly,  making  for 
your  mouth.  I  couldn't  move  with  terror.  I  had  a  sud- 
den illumination.  The  devil  will  enter  her  mouth  and 
possess  her  eternally  the  moment  she  throws  off  the 
blessed  protection  of  the  holy  convent.  It  is  a  warning 
298 


Vocations  299 

straight  from  God,"  the  old  nun  added,  with  tragic  sin- 
cerity. "You'll  take  it  to  heart,  dearest  Sister?" 

"Thank  you,  Sister."  Kitty  shuddered,  and  gave  an 
unconscious  look  at  her  guimpe. 

"Thank  God,  thank  God.  I  can  see  the  warning  has 
touched  your  heart,"  the  old  nun  said  excitedly.  "I  am 
blessed  forever;  who  knows  but  God  in  His  Divine 
mercy  will  cure  my  indigestion  at  last  and  prevent  the 
devil  worrying  me.  You'll  pray  for  me,  dear  Catherine. 
God  will  listen  to  you.  There  is  more  joy  in  heaven, 
you  know,  over  one  sinner  that  repents,  than  over 
ninety-nine  just.  Not  a  word  to  anyone.  We'll  keep  our 
little  secret  between  God  and  ourselves.  Immaculata 
would  be  jealous — she  thinks  no  one  gets  a  revelation 
but  herself." 

"Well,  well,  I'm  really  surprised."  Mother  Michael 
opened  the  door.  "A  senior,  like  you,  Evangelist,  break- 
ing silence." 

"God  forgive  me.  But  it  was  something  transcendently 
important,"  the  old  nun  said. 

"It  always  is,"  said  Michael.  "Would  you  mind  feed- 
ing the  doves  for  me  to-day?  Laurence  is  ill." 

"Oh,  thanks,  Mother,"  the  old  nun  said  gratefully. 
"I'll  do  my  very  best  to  fulfil  the  important  trust." 

"Was  she  throwing  the  devil  at  you?"  Michael  asked, 
when  the  old  nun  had  hurried  away. 

"Very  gently,"  said  Kitty. 

"Pickles,"  Mother  Michael  said  cryptically.  "There's 
no  harm  in  the  poor  thing,  but  she  has  no  stomach.  I'm 
as  strong  as  a  horse  myself,  but  cold  meat  and  pickles 
make  me  see  visions." 

"The  Sisters  weren't  to  be  told  about  my  leaving.  I'm 
getting  tired  of  everyone  lecturing  and  advising  me," 
Kitty  said. 

"A  secret — about  another  person — in  a  convent !" 
Michael  said,  wkh  a  shrug.  "Women !  my  dear.  Any- 
how, it  has  its  uses.  Constant  dripping  often  wears 


300  Vocations 

away  a  stone.  Did  Father  Brady  knock  any  sense  into 
you?" 

"He  did — to  leave  as  soon  as  I  can." 

"Men  are  such  softies,  especially  the  fierce  ones  like 
Father  Pat.  I  told  Reverend  Mother  he'd  do  no  good. 
Bernardine  will  do  better." 

"You've  often  said  he  hasn't  two  ideas  in  his  head." 

"That's  why,  maybe.  And  the  bishop  will  put  down 
his  foot.  Don't  be  a  fool,  Kitty.  What  are  you  going 
out  to?  If  you  defy  the  bishop  your  mother  must  be 
told  to-morrow  and  she'll  be  demented.  You  can't  live 
at  home  with  her." 

"Father  Brady  will  speak  to  her." 

"He  might  as  well  speak  to  the  moon.  All  her  life  she 
dreamt  and  schemed  to  make  you  and  Winnie  nuns.  It's 
not  religion  with  her,  it's  a  monomania.  The  moment 
her  dream  comes  true  you  'want  to  smash  it  to  bits. 
She'll  never  forgive  you.  Here  at  least  you  won't  have 
people  barging  you  all  day  long." 

The  sitting-room  over  the  shop  loomed  before  Kitty 
in  all  its  appalling  loneliness.  Without  Winnie  to  fight 
with  it  would  be  worse.  And  that  hard  steely  glitter  in 
her  mother's  eyes  when  she  was  crossed! 

"You  don't  really  know  anyone  in  the  town.  Besides, 
all  the  other  girls  were  always  jealous  of  you — they'll 
be  glad  to  have  a  hit-back  at  you.  You'll  be  Tom  Cur- 
tin's  daughter  that  was  turned  out  of  the  convent," 
Mother  Michael  said,  in  a  businesslike  tone. 

"But  I'm  not,"  Kitty  protested. 

Mother  Michael  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "People  will 
believe  what  will  tell  most  against  you.  Legends  will 
grow  up  about  you — to  your  discredit.  All  sorts  of 
things  will  be  said  and  believed.  The  most  charitable 
will  put  their  fingers  to  their  foreheads  and  say  you  are 
mad." 

"You're  horrid." 

"Before  you're  out  a  month  you'll  wish  yourself  back 
again  and  we  can't  take  you.  You  can't  even  come  up 


Vocations  301 

and  see  us  or  see  Winnie — we  can't  have  you  giving  a 
bad  example  to  the  young  nuns.  At  home  you'll  have 
black  looks  and  hard  words.  You  can't  go  for  a  walk  in 
comfort.  You'll  be  pointed  to  as  the  spoilt  nun.  You 
know  the  sort  of  thing — averted  looks,  shrugs,  whis- 
pering." 

"I  can  go  away." 

"Your  mother  won't  let  you  have  a  penny." 

"I  can  work." 

Mother  Michael  looked  her  all  over,  not  unkindly,  and 
shrugged  her  shoulders.  "And  put  it  out  of  your  head 
that  you  can  marry.  Not  a  man  in  Drumbawn  would 
have  the  courage  to  do  it.  He  daren't,  even  if  he  would." 

"We're  not  living  in  the  Dark  Ages,"  Kitty  said  indig- 
nantly. But  her  tongue  was  dry  and  she  had  an  uncon- 
trollable feeling  of  depression.  "I  shall  be  free,  free." 

"God  help  your  head,  child.  Don't  believe  in  empty 
words.  I'm  telling  you  the  facts.  We're  in  possession. 
We're  protected  by  the  prejudices  of  generations.  No 
matter  how  right  you  are  you'll  be  put  in  the  wrong. 
There's  only  one  thing  to  do  when  you  make  a  mistake 
in  this  life,  and  that's  to  make  the  best  of  it.  Some  of 
the  happiest  nuns  you  see  here  went  through  what 
you're  going  through  now.  Had  they  done  what  you're 
bent  on  doing  they'd  be  mad  or  in  their  graves." 

"I  don't  believe  it.  I  don't  believe  it,"  Kitty  cried  hys- 
terically. "It's  more  devilish  than  I  thought — devilish — 
devilish." 

"Be  a  good  girl  now,  and  have  sense,"  Mother  Michael 
admonished  sympathetically,  taking  her  hand. 

Kitty  shook  her  off  and  with  tears  blinding  her  eyes 
groped  her  way  into  the  corridor.  She  stood  for  a  while 
at  a  window.  Slowly  the  blurred  haze  gave  way  to  light 
and  colour.  The  flowers  smiled  at  her.  The  deep,  peace- 
ful blue  of  the  sky  dissipated  the  suffocating  feeling  that 
oppressed  her  and  gave  her  an  acute  longing,  half  pleas- 
ant, half  painful.  Sister  Thomasine  passed,  with  bent 
head,  telling  her  beads.  Near  the  cote  doves  fluttered 


302  Vocations 

round  Sister  Evangelist,  perched  on  her  shoulders, 
pecked  off  her  hand.  How  peaceful  it  was,  and  beauti- 
ful! Sister  Bernard  walked  down  the  centre  path,  her 
face  pale  as  a  Madonna  lily,  her  eyes  staring,  unsee- 
ingly,  with  a  look  of  unutterable  anguish,  at  the  brilliant 
flowers.  Kitty  shuddered.  It  was  as  if  the  riot  of  colour 
decked  the  bed  of  a  corpse.  Death  itself  was  preferable 
to  this  living  death.  Her  tears  fell  freely.  The  warmth 
coursing  down  her  cheeks  comforted  her.  Michael  had 
the  jaundiced  view  of  the  slave  who  had  submitted — the 
sort  of  fossilized  fear  that  posed  as  common  sense. 

"Cry,  dear.  Let  the  tears  flow.  God  is  at  last  unlock- 
ing your  heart,"  Mother  Calixta  cooed  in  her  ear. 

Kitty  started  and  stiffened.  "I  must  be  going  out  to 
my  work,"  she  said  coldly,  drying  her  eyes. 

"Thank  God.,  Father  Brady  has  started  the  good  work. 
Only  a  tiny  candle  yet,  perhaps.  He's  not  very  spiritual. 
Wait  till  Father  Bernardine  turns  on  the  light  fully. 
He'll  penetrate  your  soul — and  the  bishop,"  Mother  Ca- 
lixta said  ecstatically.  "I  don't  speak  for  myself.  But 
I  have  done  something.  Haven't  I,  dearest?  And  dar- 
ling Winnie  is  praying  for  you.  There's  a  saint  if  ever 
there  was  on,e.  As  open  as  the  day  and  obedient  to  the 
slightest  hint  of  the  Divine  will," 

"Sister  Thomasine  has  gone  to  the  school — I  must 
go,"  Kitty  said. 

"That's  a  sign  that  God  is  working  in  you — your  anx- 
iety to  fulfill  your  duties.  But  a  little  word  from  a  poor 
novice  mistress  may  be  a  still  higher  call.  Tell  me  how 
you  feel  the  grace  acting.  I  may  be  able  to  give  it  a 
little  push.  A  word  in  season  may  make  all  the  differ- 
ence. A  stitch  in  time  saves  nine.  I've  known  a  good 
start  from  tears  end  in  heaven.  All  your  life  you  may 
have  cause  to  bless  me  for  this  providential  opportunity. 
Thank  God,  Father  Brady  opened  the  floodgates  of  re- 
pentance. I'm  dying  to  know  what  he  said  to  you. 
Don't  leave  out  a  word." 


Vocations  303 

Kitty  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  at  the  approach  of  Rever- 
end Mother. 

"I  found  her  in  tears.  What  a  blessing,  dear  Reverend 
Mother  !"  Mother  Calixta  said. 

"Humph!"  said  Reverend  Mother  dryly,  with  a  sharp 
glance  over  her  spectacles  at  Kitty.  "Run  away  now, 
Calixta.  Your  novices  are  waiting  for  you." 

"I  thought  of  a  little  lecture  at  the  opportune  mo- 
ment," Mother  Calixta  moved  with  reluctance.  "She 
was  just  going  to  tell  me  what  Father  Brady  said.  I'm 
sure  I  could  throw  some  light " 

"Run  away  now.  There's  a  good  child,"  Reverend 
Mother  said  dreamily.  "Come,  Kitty.  Let  us  say  a 
prayer  together  in  the  chapel." 

Mother  Calixta  frowned,  and  walked  away  slowly  with 
much  dignity. 

Reverend  Mother  sighed.  "He  didn't  do  you  any 
good?  Well,  well,  Father  Bernardine  might,"  doubt- 
fully, "or  the  bishop,"  she  added,  still  more  doubtfully. 

"I'm  sorry,  Reverend  Mother.  I'm  afraid  no  one  can," 
Kitty  said  affectionately. 

"God  can,"  said  Reverend  Mother. 

"He  always  tells  me  to  go — I'm  often  afraid  of  my- 
self, but  He  gives  me  courage." 

"Hush,  dear.  That's  the  devil.  A  prayer  from  your 
heart  now  and  I'm  sure  all  will  come  right  yet." 

They  knelt  in  one  of  the  benches  at  the  back  of  the 
chapel.  Reverend  Mother's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  tab- 
ernacle door  in  a  rapt  gaze.  Kitty  asked  God  to  guide 
her  aright.  The  loud  ticking  of  the  sacristy  clock  seemed 
to  say,  "Go,  go."  There  was  something  hard  and  stern 
in  the  command  as  if  a  difficult  task  were  imposed  on 
her.  That  was  it.  It  was  a  duty.  She  had  been  shirk- 
ing life.  Not  of  her  own  will — at  least,  not  altogether. 
But  now  that  her  eyes  were  open,  no  matter  how  diffi- 
cult was  the  road,  no  matter  what  obstacles  stood  in  the 
way,  there  must  be  no  faltering,  no  drawing  back.  She 
shivered  slightly.  She  knew  so  little  of  life,  of  the  world. 


304  Vocations 

The  future  stretched  out  before  her,  black  and  forbid- 
ding. Bessie  Sweetman  lived  in  rooms  in  Dublin,  was  a 
secretary  or  something.  Bessie  would  help  her  to  find 
work.  What  if  Bessie  wouldn't?  She  had  a  momentary 
feeling  of  weakness,  of  giddiness,  and  clasped  the  back 
of  the  bench  on  which  she  leant.  She  mustn't  give  way 
to  cowardice.  This  weakness  was  due  to  the  pictures 
Michael  and  the  others  had  drawn  of  her  future.  They 
were  true  to  some  extent,  but  surely  there  were  many 
people  who  were  not  blind  worshippers  of  convents? 
Mother  Michael  said  they  were  in  possession.  Father 
Brady,  when  he  was  not  trying  to  be  official,  thought 
'them  ridiculous.  George  Lynch  killed  them  with  an 
ironic  smile.  Many  of  the  girls  at  St.  Margaret's  thought 
them  silly  and  futile.  Bessie  Sweetman  went  farther, 
and  hated  them.  What  was  it  she  called  them?  Vam- 
pires that  fattened  on  the  blood  of  illusioned  fools,  and 
for  the  disillusioned,  hells  on  earth.  How  Bessie  used 
to  rage.  Always,  almost  from  her  birth,  she  said,  she 
had  felt  the  tentacles,  as  of  an  enormous  octopus,  grop- 
ing round  to  clutch  her  and  suck  her  blood. 

Kitty  gave  a  deep  sigh  of  relief  and  felt  as  if  she  had 
herself  escaped  a  horrible  disaster.  Her  strength  came 
back,  and  her  courage.  If  the  difficulties  were  ten  times 
greater  than  Mother  Michael  pictured  them,  nothing 
could  stop  her  now. 

A  feeling  of  peace  possessed  her.  The  quiet  of  the 
empty  chapel,  the  twinkling  light  before  the  tabernacle, 
the  colours  playing  on  the  tiled  floor,  Reverend  Mother's 
absorbed  face,  the  white  and  black  of  her  dress  made  a 
sensuous  appeal.  Pleasing  images  passed  rapidly  through 
Kitty's  mind :  Evangelist  feeding  the  doves ;  the  chant  of 
the  Office  in  the  mirk  of  a  winter  morning;  the  gliding 
movement  of  white  and  black  figures  to  and  from  their 
stalls ;  a  white  and  black  line  of  nuns  on  the  hill  above 
the  river,  their  veils  swept  back  by  the  wind,  giving  the 
life  and  movement  of  a  Greek  frieze;  a  nun  saying  her 
rosary  in  the  dappled  shade  of  the  beech  avenue.  She 


Vocations  3Q5 

sighed.  It  had  an  attraction — to  look  at,  wnen  one  knew 
one  was  outside  it.  But  to  be  of  it?  She  looked  affec- 
tionately at  Reverend  Mother.  For  Reverend  Mother, 
perhaps,  and  for  some  others  the  outside  beauty  had  its 
reflection  in  an  inward  peace.  But  for  the  rest?  Make-> 
believe,  dull  resignation,  despair  or  a  seething  anguish. 


Chapter  si 

**  •  NEVER  knew  such  nonsense,"  Sister  Thomas- 
ine grumbled.  "In  the  middle  of  a  geography 
lesson,  too." 

M  "But  Father  Bernardine,  dear  Sister.  And  he 
must  catch  the  mail  back,"  Mother  Calixta  said  meekly, 
"with,  we  hope,  a  soul  rescued !"  she  added  with  a  sigh. 

"Stuff  and  nonsense.  Give  her  a  dose  of  castor  oil.  If 
ye  only  let  the  child  alone  she'd  settle  down.  They  all 
do.  Souls,  indeed!  I  warn  you  this  is  the  last  time." 

"Except,  of  course,  for  his  lordship  to-morrow.  Un- 
less divine  grace  acts  sooner." 

Sister  Thomasine  contemptuously  shrugged  her  shoul- 
ders. "Thank  God,  I  never  knew  I  had  a  soul.  I  never 
saw  anything  but  gallivanting  to  come  of  'em.  If  you 
want  to  fool  about  with  a  priest  invent  a  soul  for  him  to 
meddle  with.  They're  all  alike,  bishops  and  all.  If  she 
wasn't  good-looking  it's  little  bother  there'd  be  about 
her.  Sister  Catherine,  come  here  a  moment.  You  can 
go  with  Mother  Calixta  for  half  an  hour,"  she  continued, 
with  a  frown  when  Kitty  came  near.  "There's  a  play- 
actor within  in  the  parlour  that  wants  to  doctor  your 
soul.  See  that  you're  back  in  time  for  your  arithmetic 
class." 

"Poor  Sister  Thomasine  has  no  spirituality,"  Mother 
Calixta  said,  with  a  sigh,  as  they  descended  the  stairs. 

Sister  Eulalie  rushed  out  of  the  infant  school  and  put 
an  arm  round  Kitty's  shoulder.  "I  saw  him  coming.  I 
have  the  infants  praying  hard  already.  Thank  God," 
with  a  spiteful  glance  at  Mother  Calixta,  "I'm  not 
snatched  away  from  the  dear  angels  till  to-morrow." 

"I  assure  you,  Sister,  I  did  my  best  to  stop  it,"  Mother 
Calixta  nervously  protested. 
306 


V  ocations  307 

"I  know  what  I  know.  I  take  note  of  everything  and 
treasure  it  up,"  Sister  Eulalie  said  darkly.  "If  a  Mother 
was  my  friend,  I'd  expect  her  to  act.  Dearest  Kitty,  re- 
member I'm  praying  for  you.  And  I'll  take  it  so  badly 
if  you  disappoint  me.  Perhaps  if  you'd  been  better  in- 
structed this  would  never  have  happened." 

Mother  Calixta,  deeply  blushing,  with  little  resentful  lines 
at  the  corner  of  her  lips,  kept  silent  till  she  reached  the 
corridor. 

"The  cat!"  she  murmured,  taking  Kitty's  hand.  "Cour- 
age, dearest.  Open  your  heart  wide.  Winnie  is  in  the 
chapel  praying  for  you.  Let  the  good  seed  sink  in.  I'll  be 
in  the  chapel,  too,  all  the  time  you're  in  with  him,  watering 
your  change  of  heart  with  my  tears  and  prayers." 

She  patted  Kitty's  hand  and  pushed  her  towards  the 
reception-room  door. 

"My  dear  Sister  Catherine."  Father  Bernardine  stepped 
forward  briskly  to  greet  her. 

He  dangled  a  purple  stole  in  his  left  hand  while  he  shook 
hands.  "Do  you  prefer  here  or  the  confessional?  Perhaps 
you'd  like  to  get  rid  of  some  of  the  burthen  first  by  an 
absolution  ?" 

"No,  thanks.    I  prefer,  if  it  must  be,  just  to  talk." 

"Let  us  make  ourselves  comfortable.  It  is  not  for  every- 
one I'd  come  away  right  in  the  middle  of  a  retreat.  But 
when  you  sought  me " 

"You  were  sought  for  me,"  Kitty  said  coldly,  taking  the 
chair  he  offered  her. 

"Ah!"  He  frowned  slightly.  "You  won't  mind  my 
taking  this  arm-chair?  The  journey  down  was  rather  fatigu- 
ing. A  mere  trifle,  though,  in  a  good  cause,"  he  added,  with 
a  smile,  settling  himself  well  back  in  the  chair  with  grace- 
ful negligence. 

He  rested  his  elbows  on  the  arms  of  the  chair  and  joined 
the  tips  of  his  long,  slender  fingers.  His  hair  hung  a  little 
down  on  his  forehead  and  gave  him  a  look  of  fatigue.  He 
gazed  thoughtfully  at  his  nails,  frowned,  sighed,  smiled 
again  and  said  with  a  nice  blend  of  interest  and  affection : 


308  Vocations 

"Now,  my  dear  child,  what  is  this  temptation?" 

Kitty  gave  a  slight  start.  He  had  placed  her  chair  straight 
in  front  of  him,  and  in  the  short  silence  she  watched  him 
closely.  How  exactly  would  he  begin?  She  knew  most 
of  his  poses  by  now,  but  this  was  something  new.  The 
tightening  of  his  lips  helped  to  conceal  the  weakness  of  his 
mouth  and  gave  it  a  note  of  sternness  that  was  not  yet 
severity.  The  general  effect  of  the  set  of  his  head,  of  his 
tone,  of  his  half-averted  eyes  was  a  slightly  pained  sur- 
prise. There  was  no  doubt  about  his  good  looks.  No  won- 
der so  many  of  the  nuns  were  in  love  with  him.  When  he 
spoke  she  was  wondering  vaguely  if  she  had  ever  been 
in  love  with  him,  if  that  was  why  she  had  listened  to  him, 
been  led  by  him? 

"It's  just  that  I  grew  up  suddenly,"  she  said  lightly. 

For  a  moment  he  was  disconcerted.  Then  the  look  of 
pain  deepened.  He  turned  his  big  brown  eyes  fully  on  her 
and  said  sadly  and  a  little  reproachfully: 

"You  mean  you  have  allowed  the  world  to  whisper  to 
your  heart,  to  dim  its  beautiful  freshness.  A  Greater  than 
I  has  said,  'Unless  you  become  as  little  children  you  can- 
not come  unto  Me/  But,  thank  God,  the  insidious  tempta- 
tion cannot  yet  have  gained  much  foothold.  We  must  strive 
with  God's  grace  to  restore  your  heart  to  its  original  in- 
nocence. You  must  again  become  as  a  little  child  with  all 
its  trust  and  confidence.  Such  only  is  the  kingdom  of 
heaven.  Now  what  is  the  particular  trouble?" 

"It  is  everything.  The  whole  life  here.  I  don't  believe 
in  it.  It's  not  life  at  all,  but  a  mockery  of  it." 

He  pursed  his  lips  and  frowned.  "The  evil  has  gone 
deeper  than  I  thought,"  he  remarked  regretfully  to  a  print 
on  the  wall.  "But  we  mustn't  despair.  We  must  try  and 
get  at  the  root  of  the  trouble." 

He  smiled.  "What  is  it  you  object  to  in  life  consecrated 
by  the  lives  and  deaths  of  innumerable  saints  of  God?"  he 
asked,  with  patronizing,  half -bantering  sarcasm. 

"I'm  not  a  saint  of  God — I'm  only  a  woman,"  she  said 
bitterly. 


Vocations  309 

His  complacency  annoyed  her.  For  a  week  she  had  been 
subjected  to  hourly  doses  of  intensive  pietistic  talk.  It  had 
come  to  seem  a  mere  patter  of  meaningless  words,  repeated 
by  rote.  "So  are  the  others,"  she  added  resentfully. 

He  looked  pained  and  hurt,  shuddered  a  little,  closed  his 
eyes  and  rested  his  hands  on  his  knees  as  if  making  an  ef- 
fort to  recover  from  a  shock. 

"This  is  serious/'  he  said.  He  joined  his  fingers  again, 
looked  at  the  ceiling  with  the  expression  of  one  of  Guide's 
saints,  and  said: 

"A  convent  to  me  is  a  vase  of  beautiful  flowers  filling  the 
ambient  air  with  the  odour  of  their  sanctity." 

She  laughed.  Half  the  nuns  had  this  silly  phrase  from 
one  of  his  sermons  written  in  their  Office  books. 

"Then  when  one  of  the  flowers  goes  bad,  the  best  thing 
to  do  is  to  take  it  out  of  the  bowl  and  pitch  it  away,"  she 
said. 

He  frowned  and  said  in  a  piqued  tone,  "Please  allow  me 
to  complete  the  figure.  One  mustn't  deal  crudely  with 
metaphors.  There  is,  perhaps,  as  yet  only  a  slight  wilting 
of  a  leaf,  a  tiredness  in  a  petal.  The  precious  flower  of 
your  vocation " 

She  gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  caught  at  the  word,  and  inter- 
rupted eagerly: 

"You  were  wrong  about  that.    I  never  had  a  vocation." 

"Please  allow  me  to  be  the  judge  of  that,"  he  said  sharply. 
"I  never  make  a  mistake.  The  decision  of  your  superiors 
here  in  admitting  you  to  profession  confirmed  my  judg- 
ment. You,  yourself,  are  the  final  proof.  Why  else  did 
you  enter,  take  your  vows?" 

"Why,  indeed?"  she  wondered  blankly.  "I  don't  know. 
It  was  some  sort  of  blindness.  You  all  told  me  things  that 
weren't  true." 

He  sat  erect  in  his  chair.  His  figure  stiffened.  He  tried 
to  smile,  but  his  lips  and  eyes  expressed  anger  and  resent- 
ment. 

"You  were  the  worst,"  she  said,  her  anger  kindled  by  his. 

He  laughed  harshly.    "This  is  very  serious,  indeed,  very 


310  Vocations 

serious.  After  all  my  prayers,  my  labour.  The  careful 
study  I  gave  to  your  soul.  The  counsel  I've  expended  on 
you." 

"It  was  my  own  fault  to  be  such  a  fool,"  she  returned. 
"However,  it  is  not  yet  too  late.  I  can  go." 

"It  is  too  late,"  he  said  sternly.  "I  have  no  wish  to 
be  hard  on  you.  But  you  speak  foolishly.  The  Church  can't 
alter  its  laws  for  the  whim  of  a  foolish  girl.  You've  made  a 
vow  of  obedience  to  your  superiors,  to  your  holy  bishop,  to 
our  holy  Church.  I  can't  speak  for  his  lordship,  but  I  cer- 
tainly could  not  recommend  a  dispensation  in  your  vow  of 
obedience.  Your  most  excellent  mistress  of  novices  thinks 
there  is  some  temporary  aberration.  You  haven't  given  me 
one  solid  reason  to  justify  your  extraordinary  conduct. 
Your  superiors  agree  with  me  that  you  had  a  real  vocation." 
He  stretched  out  his  hand  and  took  the  stole  off  the  table. 
"You  must  have  fallen  into  some  sin.  Come  and  remove 
the  burthen  from  your  soul.  In  the  serene  light  of  God's 
holy  grace  you  will  repent  of  this  madness." 

"But  I  have  committed  no  sin,"  she  protested. 

She  felt  as  if  she  was  being  enclosed  in  some  new  net. 

His  smile,  half  of  superiority,  half  of  pity,  made  her 
angry. 

"You  want  to  keep  me  here  against  my  will,"  she  said. 

He  smiled  again  for  a  moment,  and  then  said  solemnly, 
"My  dear  child,  your  will  is  no  longer  your  own.  You  have 
given  it  up  into  the  hands  of  your  superiors,  of  your  good 
bishop,  of  our  holy  mother  the  Church.  You  say  you  have 
committed  no  sin?  You  have  already  gravely  broken  your 
vow  of  obedience — at  least  in  intention.  If  you  leave  this 
sanctuary  of  God's  love,"  he  waved  his  hand  towards  the 
walls,  "you  will  sin  daily  against  your  vow  of  holy  obedi- 
ence. In  a  short  time  your  soul  will  be  a  mass  of  corrup- 
tion. Facilis  est  descensus  averni — hell  will  yawn  wide  in 
front  of  you.  An  eternity  of  torment  for  the  gratification 
of  a  mere  whim!" 

She  shut  her  eyes  with  a  shudder.  All  the  devils  of  her 
childhood  seemed  to  rush  at  her.  She  put  out  her  hand  to 


Vocations  311 

ward  them  off.  It  fell  limply  through  the  empty  air  to  her 
knee.  She  opened  her  eyes  and  smiled. 

"I  am  counting  the  hours  till  I  go,"  she  said. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "This  hardness  of  heart  is 
only  adding  to  your  sin.  Is  my  troublesome  and  incon- 
venient journey  to  be  fruitless?  Is  this  your  gratitude? 
Have  you  no  thought  for  all  the  hours  I  have  spent  on  the 
cultivation  of  your  soul?  What  will  his  lordship  say  but 
that  I  have  been  remiss  in  my  duty?" 

His  lips  relaxed  and  hung  loosely,  revealing  the  weak- 
ness of  his  mouth.  His  eyes  glowed  with  self-pity. 

She  felt  hard  and  bitter  with  herself.  If  he  was  acting 
at  all  it  was  quite  unconscious.  What  was  life  or  death  to 
her  was  to  be  determined  by  his  vanity.  And  she  had 
listened  to  him  for  three  years,  believed  in  him,  subjected 
herself  to  the  tortures  of  the  damned  on  his  advice. 

"Is  there  any  use  in  continuing  this?"  she  asked,  and 
smiled,  half  in  pity,  half  in  wonder,  at  his  self-centred  face. 

She  stood  up  to  go.    He  rose,  took  her  hand  and  patted  it. 

"For  my  sake?"  he  appealed. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said,  and  abruptly  snatched  away  her 
hand. 

"Then  your  sins  be  on  your  own  head/'  he  said  bitterly, 
with  a  melodramatic  gesture. 

She  hurried  out  of  the  room  and  along  the  corridor.  She 
hesitated  for  a  moment  at  the  turn  to  the  chapel.  Mother 
Calixta  and  Winnie  were  in  there  praying,  waiting  for  her. 
"Let  them  pray,"  she  muttered  recklessly,  and  shot  into  the 
passage  to  the  schools.  She  was  too  confused  to  pray ;  and 
she  needed  prayers  with  all  the  booby-traps  that  were  being 
set  for  her.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  Sister  Eulalie  waylaid 
her. 

"I  felt  as  I  prayed  that  a  miracle  was  being  performed. 
Was  he  very  divine?"  she  asked,  with  ecstasy. 

"For  God's  sake  leave  me  alone,"  Kitty  said  rudely,  rush- 
ing up  the  stairs. 

Sister  Thomasine  met  her  inside  the  door  of  the  class- 
room, pointed  accusingly  to  the  clock,  and  mumbled: 


312  Vocations 

"Five  minutes  late.  Thirty-five  minutes  wasted  in  talking 
to  a  fool.  Made  you  worse,  very  likely.  Father  Brady  isn't 
good  enough  for  'em.  They  must  have  frilled  idiots  of  spe- 
cial confessors.  They  can't  spare  time  for  their  work  with 
all  this  play  acting.  In  my  time  nuns  used  to  have  some 
sense." 

Kitty  went  cheerfully  to  her  class.  Sister  Thomasine  and 
arithmetic  were  a  welcome  relief  from  her  soul.  If  only 
the  convent  were  always  arithmetic  she  might  put  up  with 
it.  But  to-day  arithmetic  was  not  a  relief.  What  if  the 
bishop  prevented  her  leaving?  The  thought  recurred  again 
and  again.  Sin  and  hell  kept  obtruding  themselves  among 
fractions  and  made  a  mess  of  a  complicated  sum  to  the 
amusement  of  her  pupils.  She  blushed  and  wiped  the  fig- 
ures hurriedly  off  the  blackboard,  half  fearful  that  the 
children  had  read  her  thoughts.  Was  it  a  sin  to  want  to 
live?  She  had  given  up  her  will,  Father  Bernardine  said. 
Yet  she  was  never  more  conscious  of  it.  She  wanted  to 
do  things,  anything — but  of  herself.  To  have  freedom 
to  choose :  that  was  life — to  feel  that  one  was  free.  She 
might  make  a  muddle  of  things,  but  there  would  be  the  joy 
of  effort,  and  the  experience,  and  the  knowledge  for  the 
next  time.  To  give  up  one's  will  to  Mother  Calixta!  If  it 
were  only  to  poor  Reverend  Mother  or  even  to  Michael? 
Yet  that  was  what  the  rule  of  the  convent  came  to.  Calixta 
was  God  to  whom  unquestioning  obedience  had  to  be  given. 
It  couldn't  be  a  sin  to  laugh  at  this  nonsense,  to  deny  that 
God  ever  intended  it.  The  opposite  must  be  true.  It  was 
a  sin  to  give  up  one's  will  to  women  who  were  more  mud- 
dled and  sillier  than  oneself.  Always  her  will  had  been 
outside  her,  tossed  about  from  hand  to  hand,  from  her 
mother  to  the  nuns,  and  back  again;  to  some  confessor; 
and  then  to  the  nuns  again  ...  to  Mother  Calixta  .  .  . 
for  ever.  And  always,  of  course,  her  will  never  had  been 
outside  her.  It  was  always  in  her  to  prick  against  the  goad, 
and  now  it  revolted.  It  was  something  that  couldn't  be  given 
up.  The  whole  meaning  of  life  was  in  one's  own  mastery 
of  it.  Perhaps  they  had  invented  hell,  too?  She  dabbed 


Vocations  313 

the  blackboard  viciously  with  her  chalk.  If  only  she  were 
clever  and  could  understand  things.  Yet,  somehow,  she 
knew.  They  were  trying  to  hold  her  by  bonds  that  did  not 
really  exist.  Hell,  too?  She  shuddered.  But  that  was  so 
much  a  part  of  her  lile  that  it  must  really  exist.  Yet  what 
nuns  and  her  confessors?  The  only  hell  she  had  really  ex- 
was  the  hell  she  feared  but  a  threat  of  her  mother  and  the 
perienced  was  the  discord  in  her  own  soul  when  she  had 
tried  to  carry  out  their  will.  .  .  . 

The  bell  for  the  break-up  of  school  sounded.  On  her 
way  to  the  chapel  she  met  Mother  Calixta  who  frowned 
at  her  and  passed  by  with  her  head  in  the  air.  That  was 
Father  Bernardine.  Other  nuns  looked  at  her  curiously 
and  questioningly,  frowned  and  gathered  their  skirts  as  if 
to  avoid  her,  or  smiled  encouragingly.  They  all  knew  about 
the  interview.  She  couldn't  stand  this  much  longer,  the 
perpetual  discussion  and  whispering,  this  exhibition  of  her- 
self— what  Muredach  called  "a  perfect  godsend  to  the 
monotony  of  the  convent." 

After  dinner  Winnie  came  up  to  her  and  asked  her  to 
come  for  a  walk  on  the  hill  above  the  river  meadow.  Kitty 
looked  at  Reverend  Mother,  who  smiled  encouragement. 

"I  have  special  permission,"  Winnie  said  mysteriously. 
"Let  us  say  a  rosary  as  a  preparation/'  she  added,  when 
they  reached  the  terrace,  "that  God  may  unlock  your — our 
hearts." 

Along  the  beech  avenue  they  half  chanted  the  monoton- 
ous prayer.  Some  new  change  had  come  over  Winnie, 
Kitty  thought.  She  seemed  more  excited,  yet  more  settled. 
Her  eyes  glowed  with  some  sort  of  exaltation.  The  list- 
lessness  of  the  past  week  had  all  gone  and  she  walked  with 
a  springing  step,  her  cheeks  slightly  flushed. 

"God  often  works  a  miracle  through  the  humblest  of  his 
instruments,"  Winnie  said,  with  emotion,  as  they  sat  on  a 
bench  overlooking  the  river. 

"They  have  begun  to  trench  for  the  hedge,"  Kitty  said, 
wondering  vaguely  what  was  this  new  move  in  the  game. 
Poor  Winnie  wasn't  a  formidable  obstacle. 


314  Vocations 

"I  feel  for  you  from  my  heart.  I,  too,  have  been  through 
the  slough  of  despond,"  Winnie  said  tenderly. 

Kitty  smiled  at  one  of  Father  Bernardine's  favorite 
phrases.  "You've  been  to  confession  to  Father  Bernar- 
dine,"  she  said. 

"Who  told  you?  Who  told  you?  How  did  you  find 
out?"  Winnie  asked  resentfully.  She  bit  her  lip  and  added, 
"Forgive  me,  dearest,  for  being  so  petulant.  In  future  I'm 
going  to  be  absolutely  even-tempered.  I  have  been  to  con- 
fession to  that  saint.  Oh,  why  did  I  never  discover  before 
to-day  what  a  saint  he  is!  I  was  blind,  blind.  I  seem  to 
have  stepped  on  to  the  ladder  of  perfection  for  the  first 
time." 

"Have  you  fallen  in  love  with  him,  too?"  Kitty  unfeel- 
ingly asked. 

Winnie  flushed,  bit  her  lip  again  and  said  meekly,  "Even 
if  you  tried  to  hurt  me  now  I  could  bear  it  without  getting 
angry.  I  have  the  most  beautiful  feeling  for  him,  of  course. 
Something  pure  and  holy,  like  worship  of  the  angels.  I 
could  kneel  down  and  kiss  the  hem  of  his  soutane  in  grati- 
tude and — affection.  He  rescued  me  from  the  slough — 
from  despair.  Oh !  so  beautifully.  Not  a  harsh  word.  If 
he  told  me  to  walk  across  the  river  there  I  feel  I  could  do 
so  without  wetting  my  feet.  It  was  like  that." 

"Last  week  it  was  Father  Burke." 

"Don't  mention  him,"  Winnie  exclaimed,  forgetting  her 
equability  for  a  moment.  "He  never  came  to  see  me !  Not 
a  word,  not  a  line.  Off  he  went  to  Lissakelly  without  ever 
even  saying  good-bye  to  me." 

She  bit  her  lip  again  and  pulled  herself  together.  "I'm 
not  angry  with  him.  It's  only  excitement  at  the  memory  of 
the  despair  I  was  in.  And,  imagine!  what  I  thought  horrid 
of  him  turns  out  to  be  the  beautiful  working  of  God's  will. 
Father  Bernardine  explained  it  all  so  beautifully,  but  I'm 
no  good  at  remembering.  And  I  was  going  to  offer  him  up 
in  any  case — for  you.  That  God  might  speak  to  your 
heart.  And  though  he  didn't  come  to  see  me  itself  Father 
Bernardine  says  it's  all  right.  That  God  will  take  inten- 


Vocations  315 

tion  for  the  deed.     Do  you  feel  anything  working  in  you 
yet,  Kitty  darling?" 

"No,"  Kitty  said  harshly,  smothering  an  inclination  to 
cry. 

"But  you  must,  you  must,"  Winnie  urged.  "I'm  going  to 
be  absolutely  unselfish  from  this  out.  And  I  can't  be  happy 
unless  you  share  with  me.  Everything  is  so  wonderful. 
Listen  to  what  I  went  through  first.  But  God  rescued  me. 
I  made  a  clean  breast  of  it  all  to  Father  Bernardine,  but  he 
made  me  promise  never  to  mention  it  to  a  living  soul  again. 
So  I  can't  tell  you  what  it  was.  It  was  some  horrible  danger 
— I  don't  quite  know  what.  He  has  a  beautiful  way  of  say- 
ing a  thing  without  saying  it.  But  out  of  evil,  he  said,  good 
may  come.  That  I  can  make  a  stepping-stone  of  my  dead 
self  to  higher  things — I'm  not  quite  certain,  though,  but  it 
was  Father  Burke  once  said  that.  But  you  know  what  I 
mean.  My  experience  has  given  me  a  fuller  heart  to  offer  to 
God.  I  feel  it  already.  I  have  a  sort  of  divine  pity  for 
Father  Burke  instead  of  being  angry  with  him  for  not 
coming  to  see  me.  And  just  at  the  end  of  school  the  young 
priest  from  Derrydonnelly,  who  has  taken  Father  Burke's 
place,  came  in.  He  looked  so  lonely  that  my  heart  went  out 
to  him.  Though  I  knew  he  had  a  'particular*  for  you,  I 
forgave  him.  I  spoke  to  him  nicely  and  let  him  hold  my 
hand  for  a  bit — not  for  long,  of  course,  for  the  children 
were  there — and  he  cheered  up  wonderfully.  I  feel  as  if 
I  could  be  kind  to  everyone.  My  heart  is  overflowing.  But 
always  Father  Bernardine  will  be  first.  He  made  my  soul 
white  as  the  driven  snow.  The  horror  and  the  despair 
have  all  gone  and  only  the  beautiful  memory  remains.  I 
know  now  what  makes  Eulalie  so  kind.  It  is  all  wonderful, 
wonderful.  I  feel  a  real  nun  at  last — as  if  I  could  be  a 
saint !" 

Kitty  was  bewildered.  She  watched  in  wonder  the 
ecstatic  face  gazing  dreamily  at  the  blue  mountains  that 
stood  out  vividly  against  the  golden  haze  of  the  plain. 
What  did  the  girl  mean?  Still,  though  less  coherent,  it  was 
much  the  same  sort  of  nonsense  that  many  of  the  nuns 


316  Vocations 

talked.    Anyhow,  a  Winnie  who  wasn't  always  flying  into 
tempers  was  a  pleasant  change. 

"Did  Father  Bernardine  speak  about  me?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  I  forgot,"  Winnie  said  penitently,  with  a  start. 
"That  was  what  I  asked  you  up  here  for.  To  make  a  sis- 
terly appeal  to  you,  out  of  the  depths  of  my  own  joy.  You 
can't  look  at  the  change  God  has  worked  in  me  and  keep  a 
hard  heart.  You  owe  that  much  to  God  and  to  me.  I  gave 
up  Father  Burke  for  you,  you  must  give  up  your  evil  inten- 
tion for  my  sake." 

"I'm  getting  tired  of  all  this.  Father  Burke  gave  you 
up — thank  God.  He  never  even  came  to  see  you." 

Winnie  flushed  angrily,  but  with  an  effort  restrained 
herself.  You  can't  hurt  me  now,"  she  said  gently,  her  lips 
twitching  a  little.  "I  can't  explain  fully.  He  didn't  give 
me  up.  Father  Bernardine  explained  it  all.  God  spoke 
to  Father  James,  too.  That  was  why  he  didn't  come  to  see 
me,  I'm  sure.  If  you  knew  everything  you'd  understand  what 
a  beautiful  miracle  it  all  was.  That  very  morning  I  came 
to  see  you  before  rising  bell  I  offered  him  up  for  your  sake 
— that  God  might  give  you  light.  I  suffered  horribly — his 
not  coming  to  see  me,  and  everything.  I  didn't  know 
what  I  was  doing.  When  I  heard  he  had  gone  to  Lissakelly 
I  thought  I'd  die.  But  all  the  time  I  knew  my  sacrifice 
would  save  you.  I  was  praying  for  you  in  the  chapel  to-day 
when  in  came  Father  Bernardine — just  after  seeing  you. 
I  never  noticed  before  what  beautiful  eyes  he  had.  He 
looked  sad  and  put  out.  But  really  noble-looking,  with  his 
brown  curls  going  a  little  white  at  the  tips.  A  sudden 
thought  struck  me — it  was  from  God,  of  course.  And  I 
went  straight  up  to  him  as  he  knelt  on  the  altar  steps  and 
asked  him  to  hear  my  confession.  His  beautiful  smile 
nearly  took  my  breath  away,  and  I  knew  then  he  was  a 
saint.  Making  my  confession  to  him  was  heaven  itself. 
Your  heart  must  be  as  hard  as  stone  not  to  have  been 
moved  bv  him.  His  voice  was  like  the  new  gong  at  the 
consecration — it  sank  into  me  like  the  most  beautiful 
music." 


Vocations  317 

"Oughtn't  we  to  be  going  back?"  Kitty  suggested. 

"You  won't  leave  the  convent,  Kitty?"  Winnie  pleaded, 
laying  a  hand  on  Kitty's  knee  to  prevent  her  getting  up. 
"I  am  thinking  only  of  your  happiness.  I  want  you  to  be 
as  happy  as  I  am." 

Kitty  shivered.  It  was  useless,  she  thought,  to  say 
anything  of  Winnie.  She  could  not  even  begin  to  under- 
stand. Her  own  life  had  been  unreal  in  many  ways,  but 
she  had  occasionally  looked  a  fact  in  the  face.  But  Winnie 
had  never  even  tried  to  do  so.  The  pettiest  of  convent 
pieties  and  the  most  foolish  of  convent  romances  were  her 
favourite  food.  Winnie  could  believe  black  was  white,  pre- 
ferred to  believe  it. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  are  happy,"  she  said,  with  an  attempt 
at  a  smile. 

"Happy?  I  never  felt  so  happy  in  my  life,"  Winnie 
said,  with  rapture.  "When  I  knew  Father  James  was  going 
I  thought  I'd  die.  But  now,  by  the  will  of  God,  it's  all  for 
the  best.  With  Father  Bernardine  for  extraordinary  con- 
fessor, what  more  is  there  to  desire?  And  my  devotions, 
of  course,  and  my  duties.  Don't  tell  any  of  the  others,  but 
he's  going  to  write  to  me  every  week — spiritual  instruction. 
He's  going  to  take  a  very  special  interest  in  me.  The 
Mothers  won't  read  his  letters,  of  course.  They'll  be 
marked  'spiritual  matters'  on  the  inner  envelope.  I  can't 
believe  you  think  of  going.  There's  no  life  on  earth  as 
happy  as  a  nun's.  I  was  often  jealous  of  you,  but  I'm  so 
happy  now  that  I  want  to  share  with  you.  I'll  be  sorry,  of 
course,  if  you  go — and  ashamed  and  all  that,  but  I  can 
never  be  really  unhappy  again.  I  want  you  to  feel  that  I 
want  you  to  stay  entirely  for  your  own  sake." 

"I  know  that,"  Kitty  said  listlessly. 

"We've  been  so  happy  all  our  lives  together,"  Winnie 
went  on.  "I  feel  you  had  a  hand  in  waking  me  up  to  the 
perfection  of  that  saint  in  human  form.  I  looked  round 
all  the  pictures  before  dinner  and  there  isn't  a  single  saint 
or  blessed  or  beatified  half  as  good-looking.  I  don't  mind 
sharing  him  with  you.  And  the  nuns  will  be  so  put  out  if 


318  Vocations 

you  go.  Calixta  says  you  have  no  consideration  for  her 
feelings.  And  I  can't  help  feeling  badly  towards  you  if 
you  hurt  Father  Bernardine  after  advising  you  to  come  in 
and  all.  And  I  won't  neglect  you  like  I  did  for  the  last  few 
years,  and  I'll  get  some  of  the  young  nuns  you  don't  really 
know  to  take  you  up — the  really  good  sort.  We'll  have 
the  time  of  our  lives.  And  we  can  often  talk  of  /MM*-  Some 
of  the  others  will  be  mad  jealous  when  they  know  he  has 
taken  me  up — but  I  must  say  of  you  you're  not  that  ..." 

Winnie  went  on  and  on,  in  an  unending  stream. 

Kitty  watched  the  smoke  curl  lazily  above  the  drab  roofs 
of  Drumbawn.  She  could  make  out  the  shop  by  the  six  red 
chimney  pots  in  a  row.  Father  Bernardine  was  safer  for 
Winnie  than  Father  Burke.  There  was  no  reason  to  bother 
about  her  now.  Her  religion  was  so  inextricably  mixed  up 
with  the  worship  of  handsome  priests  that  a  convent  was 
the  best  place  for  her.  She  clenched  her  hands.  Good 
God,  the  tortures  she  had  undergone  to  fit  herself  for  these 
futilities !  And  the  net  in  which  she  had  entangled  herself. 
If  her  father  went  against  her,  what  should  she  do?  She 
hadn't  the  price  of  her  railway  ticket  to  Dublin — not  even 
a  penny.  .  .  .  Still,  the  loneliness  of  the  drawing-room, 
with  its  view  of  the  dreary  street  from  behind  the  rep  cur- 
tains, was  better  than  the  talk  of  Winnie  and  her  friends. 

"And  when  Eulalie  is  Reverend  Mother,  it  will  be  heaven 
on  earth." 

Winnie's  exultant  words  made  Kitty  think  of  Reverend 
Mother,  her  kindness,  of  her  utter  bewilderment  in  the 
midst  of  the  convent  she  was  supposed  to  govern;  of 
Michael  keeping  a  certain  external  order;  of  this  nun  and 
that,  happy  or  miserable,  whose  only  common  link  was  a 
uniform  dress.  Tears  came  into  her  eyes  at  the  memory.  All 
the  nuns  she  had  known  seemed  to  twine  into  an  immense 
tree  against  the  smoke  screen  that  hung  over  the  river.  Faces 
hung  out ;  the  patient,  the  resigned,  the  heroic,  the  stunted, 
the  rebellious,  the  indulgent,  the  repressed,  the  merely 
futile ;  those  who  loved  God  in  fear,  the  sexless,  the  sexed ; 
many  lovable.  All  seemed  so  much  human  waste.  And, 


Vocations  319 

with  a  slight  shifting  of  the  screen,  tortured  as  well.  She 
shuddered.  ...  A  tortured  human  waste  heap.  .  .  . 

"I  told  Father  Bernardine  you  often  had  these  mad  fits 
against  nuns  at  school.  And  that  I  was  sure  God  would 
help  me  to  get  round  you.  You'll  stay  for  my  sake,  Kitty 
darling?"  Winnie  babbled. 

"I'd  die  first,"  Kitty  said  fiercely. 

The  river  smiled  invitingly  up  at  her.  Nuns  had  done 
that,  she  thought,  setting  her  teeth.  But  that  was  for  the 
cowardly,  the  despairing.  And  she  wanted  to  live,  would 
live. 

Winnie  had  a  struggle  with  anger,  but  her  newly  found 
meekness  triumphed. 

"I'll  pray.  I  haven't  prayed  at  all  yet  really — not,  I 
mean,  since  I  got  real  grace." 

"Pray  till  you're  black  in  the  face,"  Kitty  returned. 

"Wait  till  mother  talks  to  you,"  Winnie  said,  after  a 
long  pause,  during  which  she  fought  valiantly  against  a 
temper  which  she  did  not  entirely  succeed  in  conquering. 
"She's  coming  after  the  bishop  and'll  be  tearing  mad." 

For  a  few  seconds  an  intense  hatred  burned  in  Kitty — of 
Winnie,  her  mother,  the  bishop,  the  convent,  the  whole  sys- 
tem that  tried  to  crush  her.  Then  she  laughed  a  little 
shrilly.  "You  fools,"  she  said,  rising,  and  walked  off 
towards  the  convent. 


Chapter  22 

t*f     •     ^HE  Bishop.    And  he  hasn't  a  minute.    He's 

due  at  Thornton  Grange  at  one  for  lunch," 

Mother    Calixta   whispered    excitedly.      "I've 

^         told  Thomasine  that  you  must  come  at  once." 

Kitty  put  aside  her  book  and  followed  Calixta  listlessly. 
Thomasine  grunted  contemptuously  as  they  passed  her 
desk. 

"Your  dear  mother  has  come,  too — just  by  accident.  You 
can  have  a  nice  comfortable  talk  with  her  after  his  lordship 
has  gone." 

The  "just  by  accident"  roused  Kitty  to  the  ghost  of  a 
smile.  The  sooner  it  was  all  over  the  better.  She  was  too 
tired  to  be  afraid,  too  tired  even  for  courage.  Half  awake 
and  half  asleep,  the  whole  night  long,  the  phantoms  of  all 
the  fears  of  a  lifetime  had  battered  her.  She  had  seen  her- 
self dead  and  judged  and  damned.  Devils  who  assumed 
kaleidoscopically  the  features  of  the  bishop,  of  Father  Ber- 
nardine,  of  her  mother,  had  mocked  at  and  scorched  her. 
They  had  stamped  on  her  quivering  flesh  with  red-hot  irons 
thoughts,  words  and  actions  that  she  had  considered  inno- 
cent, and  labelled  them  "sin"  in  fiery  letters. 

"Our  love  and  prayers  are  telling  on  you.  You're  com- 
ing round.  You  look  like  a  saint,"  Mother  Calixta  said, 
as  they  walked  through  the  covered  passage  to  the  con- 
vent. 

Kitty  smiled  and  walked  with  a  lighter  step.  It  was  so 
that  people  were  encouraged  and  prayed  for  on  the  way  to 
the  stake.  The  humour  of  it  appealed  to  her. 

"Is  it  worth  while  taking  all  this  trouble  with  me?"  she 
asked  gaily. 

"Not  a  sparrow  can  fall  to  the  ground "  Mother 

320 


Vocations  321 

Calixta    said,    making    a    desperate    effort    to    remember. 
"Scripture — you  know." 

"But  I  want  to  fly.  And  you're  all  trying  to  clip  my 
wings." 

"Hush,  dear.  You  must  be  humble  in  speaking  to  his 
lordship.  You  were  looking  nicely  miserable  a  minute  ago. 
It's  not  becoming  to  look  so  happy  and  you  in  sin.  When 
he  has  advised  you  and  you  have  seen  the  error  of  your 
ways,  then  it  would  be  quite  fitting.  Try  not  to  smile, 
dear." 

Kitty  tried  not  to  laugh,  but  without  success.  A  broad 
smile  was  still  on  her  lips  when  she  entered  the  reception- 
room.  The  bishop  put  down  his  tumbler  and  mulled  claret, 
wiped  his  mouth  with  a  napkin,  shot  a  quick  look  at  her, 
smiled  jovially,  squeezed  her  hand,  turned  to  Reverend 
Mother,  who  was  sitting  at  the  corner  of  the  table,  and 
said,  with  a  smile  of  contempt : 

"This  is  another  of  your  mare's  nests,  Reverend  Mother. 
You'll  find  this  girl  has  no  notion  of  leaving  us." 

"I'm  sure  she  won't  when  you've  spoken  to  her,  my 
lord,"  Mother  Calixta  said  unctuously. 

"Hum,  hum."  The  bishop  pursed  his  lips  and  expanded 
his  chest.  "Leave  us  now,  Mothers." 

Reverend  Mother  sighed,  got  up  heavily,  looked  at  the 
bishop's  red  face  over  her  spectacles,  sighed  again,  took 
Kitty's  hand. 

"God  bless  you,  dear — whatever  you  decide  to  do," 
she  said  quietly. 

"Now,  Reverend  Mother.  I  have  no  time  to  lose,"  the 
bishop  said  impatiently.  "What's  all  this  about?"  he 
added,  as  the  Mothers  left  the  room,  pointing  to  the  vacant 
chair.  "These  women  think  a  bishop  has  no  important 
work  but  attending  to  them.  I'll  be  late  for  luncheon. 
And  this  claret  has  got  quite  cold." 

He  finished  his  glass,  smacked  his  lips  and  smiled  be- 
nignly. 

"You  look  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long?" 
"I  am." 


322  Vocations 

"Then  what  the — then  what's  all  the  fuss  about?"  he 
asked  angrily.  "There,  it's  ten  minutes  past  twelve  and  I 
have  six  miles  to  drive." 

"Because  I'm  going  to  leave,  I  suppose,"  Kitty  said. 

He  stared  at  her  with  a  deep  frown. 

"You're  going  to  leave,  are  you?"  he  repeated,  with  a 
not  unkind  jeer. 

"And  I  want  you  to  dispense  me  in  my  vows." 

"To  dispense  you  in  your  vows?"  he  repeated,  with  the 
same  jeer.  "Is  there  anything  else  now?"  he  added,  with 
heavy  sarcasm. 

"To  annul  them  if  you  can,"  she  said  desperately. 

He  laughed  heartily  but  with  a  display  of  some  temper. 
"I'm  not  the  Pope — yet,"  he  said,  with  more  enjoyment. 

"And  what  for  now?"  he  added  sarcastically.  "No,  no, 
you  needn't  waste  any  more  of  my  time,"  he  continued, 
with  another  look  at  the  clock.  "I  could  dispense  you  in 
your  vows,  but  I  won't.  I've  heard  about  all  you  said  to 
Reverend  Mother  and  Father  Bernardine — they  were  both 
much  too  soft  with  you.  And  when  I  have  more  time  to 
spare  I'll  let  them  know  it.  I  have  also  had  a  talk  with 
your  good  mother — a  good  religious  woman  who  knows 
her  duty  and  is  prepared  to  do  it.  Go  back  to  your  work 
and  give  up  this  nonsense.  You're  a  good-looking  girl  and 
will  make  an  excellent  nun  in  time.  But  there  must  be  no 
more  of  this  foolishness  or  I'll  come  down  severely  on  you. 
Even  your  good  looks  won't  save  you  a  second  time,"  he 
added,  with  a  smile. 

"I'll  go,"  she  said  timidly,  shivering  under  the  smile, 
which,  on  the  swarthy  aggressive  face,  seemed  more  threat- 
ening than  a  frown. 

"You'll  go  out  into  the  world  in  sin,  with  your  vows 
slung  to  your  back,  with  your  mother's  door  shut  in  your 
face,  without  clothes  to  your  back  or  a  penny  in  your 
pocket?"  he  said,  in  angry  derision.  "My  good  girl,  when 
you  think  it  over,  you'll  think  better  of  it,"  he  added,  more 
kindly.  "I  must  be  off." 

He  felt  the  outside  of  the  silver  claret  jug  with  his  hand. 


Vocations  323 

"I  have  a  bad  cold,"  he  said,  with  a  friendly  smile.  "And 
this  is  still  warm.  You  have  all  made  me  hoarse  with  all 
this  talking." 

He  poured  out  half  a  tumblerful  and  drank  it.  "Good- 
bye now  and  God  bless  you.  Pray  for  me.  Send  in  those 
foolish  Mothers  to  me." 

He  squeezed  her  hand.  "Have  a  talk  with  your  good 
mother  and  then  go  to  the  chapel  and  say  a  few  prayers 
as  a  penance.  No,  don't  say  any  more,  I  haven't  another 
minute.  You'll  make  a  fine  nun  yet,  God  bless  you.  A 
horse  often  goes  all  the  better  in  his  second  wind.  But 
don't  let  this  happen  again,  or  you'll  see  the  hard  side  of 
me/' 

He  gave  her  hand  another  squeeze  and  pushed  her  gently 
away. 

"Did  he  make  everything  all  right?  He  can  be  so  beauti- 
ful," Mother  Calixta  said,  rushing  up  to  Kitty  in  the  cor- 
ridor. 

"He  wishes  to  see  you  both,"  Kitty  said  to  Reverend 
Mother,  who  was  staring  through  the  window  at  the  doves 
on  the  terrace  walks. 

"Again?"    Reverend  Mother  gave  a  shuddering  sigh. 

Kitty  stared  at  the  doves.  She  laughed.  Turtle  doves 
were  like  holy  nuns — always  pecking  at  one  another.  She 
heard  the  bishop's  hearty  laugh  and  Mother  Calixta's  thin 
giggle.  Doors  were  opened  and  shut.  There  was  the 
bishop's  laugh  again,  and  her  mother's  boisterous  roar  in 
chorus.  They  were  laughing  about  her — over  the  bishop's 
easy  triumph.  Why  should  she  not  laugh,  too?  She 
laughed  till  tears  came  into  her  eyes. 

"Hush,  Sister.  The  rule  of  silence  is  no  joke,"  Sister 
Laurence  said,  with  a  frown,  in  passing. 

"It's  a  much  better  joke  than  the  rule  of  silence,"  Kitty 
said  gaily,  but  with  a  sudden  feeling  of  lead  at  her  heart. 

The  bishop's  coarse,  strong  face  seemed  to  look  down  on 
the  quarrelling  doves  with  an  amused,  jeering  smile.  She 
was  just  one  of  the  old  community  shawls  that  one  pitched 
anywhere  in  the  cloakroom.  Her  feelings  were  nothing, 


324  Vocations 

her  mind,  her  will  were  nothing  to  him.  She  blushed 
vividly  and  her  lips  stiffened.  He  was  her  superior  .  .  .; 
represented  God  to  her  .  .  .  that  coarse,  rude  bully.  He, 
the  director  of  her  soul,  the  arbiter  of  her  will.  .  .  . 

"She'll  be  like  putty  in  ye'er  hands  after  the  lambasting 
I  gave  her,"  came  with  a  hoarse  laugh  from  the  entrance 
hall.  "You  must  keep  your  young  stock  better  in  hand, 
Reverend  Mother,  but  you'll  find  she'll  answer  to  the  curb 
now.  Good-bye  to  all  of  you,  and  God  bless  you.  My  lun- 
cheon'll  be  stone  cold  or  done  to  a  cinder.  Be  stiff  with 
her,  Mrs.  Curtin." 

Kitty  walked  quickly  towards  the  entrance.  They  wanted 
not  only  her  mind  and  will,  but  every  vestige  of  her  self- 
respect,  of  her  pride,  of  her  vanity,  even. 

"You  darling  thing!"  Mother  Calixta  said,  with  out- 
stretched arms.  "I  knew  he'd  come  round  you." 

Kitty  pushed  her  aside  and  looked  stonily  at  her  mother's 
hand. 

Reverend  Mother  sighed  and  lumbered  dexterously  be- 
tween mother  and  daughter. 

"The  bishop  is  rather  a  tornado,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh. 
"We  must  bear  up  under  him,  Kitty.  Quietly,  my  dear, 
quietly.  It's  something  to  know  one's  own  mind.  I  never 
did,  God  forgive  me.  Everything  will  come  right  in  the 
end.  But  I've  come  between  you  and  your  mother." 

She  moved  aside  with  a  smile.  With  an  answering  smile 
Kitty  suffered  her  mother's  embrace. 

"Shook  off  my  feet  I  was  with  the  bad  news  Mother 
Calixta  there  gave  me,  and  I  standing  on  the  doorstep  and 
me  not  knowing  why  in  the  world  she  sent  for  me ;  and  it 
a  market  day  and  all.  But  all's  well  that  ends  well,  as  the 
Prayer  Book  says.  Sure  if  a  bishop  couldn't  work  a  mir- 
acle, who  could?" 

Reverend  Mother  prayed  desperately,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
Kitty's  face.  "Just  a  moment,  Mrs.  Curtin,"  she  inter- 
rupted. "The  reception-room  is  a  little  less  public.  Shall 
we  leave  you?  I'm  sure  you  wish  to  speak  to  Kitty  alone." 

She  smiled  appealingly  at  Kitty.    But  Kitty  was  beyond 


V '  ocations  325 

all  smiles.    Her  face  was  drawn  and  rigid,  her  eyes  glowed. 

"There's  nothing  mother  has  to  say  to  me  that  everyone 
may  not  hear,"  she  said  bitterly.  "You  heard  her  get  her 
instructions." 

"Is  the  girl  demented?  And  me  thinking  the  bishop  had 
sobered  her,"  Mrs.  Curtin  cried. 

Reverend  Mother  shepherded  them  into  the  reception- 
room  and  shut  the  door.  Mother  Calixta  soothed  Mrs. 
Curtin.  "It's  all  right  now.  She  has  yielded  to  nice  feel- 
ing. And  his  lordship  was  so  very  kind  and  considerate. 
God  was  so  good  as  to  listen  to  my  poor  little  prayers. 
We'll  all  take  her  back  into  our  hearts  again." 

"I'll  leave  to-day,"  Kitty  said. 

"Against  the  bishop's  express  command!  His  lordship! 
who  represents  God,  whose  spouse  you  are!  Your  vow  of 
holy  obedience,  your  religion!"  Mother  Calixta  gasped. 

"We  must  pray  for  him,"  Reverend  Mother  said  vaguely. 
"God  will  soften  his  heart.  But  there  is  your  vow  of  obe- 
dience. It  would  be  a  mortal  sin  to  go  against  his  will." 

Kitty  laughed.  "If  there  was  any  sin  it  was  in  taking  a 
vow  that  meant  obedience  to  him,"  she  said  wildly.  "And 
it  would  be  a  greater  sin  to  keep  it.  I  feel  soiled,  I  shall 
never  feel  clean  again  as  long  as  I  stay  here.  I'd  have  no 
religion  if  I  believed  that  that  man  represented  God." 

"His  lordship!  His  lordship!  Blasphemy!  Reverend 
Mother,  dearest,  can't  you  do  something?"  Mother  Calixta 
said,  putting  her  hands  to  her  ears. 

Mrs.  Curtain's  florid  face  had  been  gradually  growing 
purple.  She  stared  at  Kitty  with  wide-open  eyes  that 
changed  from  bewilderment  to  anger  and  then  to  hate.  Her 
jaws  that  had  at  first  hung  open  shut  tight  in  a  malevolent 
expression. 

"Leave  her  to  me,  Reverend  Mother,  leave  her  to  me," 
she  said  violently.  "It's  no  daughter  of  mine  at  all  that's 
in  it.  It's  the  devil  that's  in  her.  A  devil  out  of  hell,  I  say. 
Tie  her  to  the  leg  of  her  bed,  Reverend  Mother.  Put  her 
on  bread  and  water  and  starve  the  devil  out  of  hen  And 
we'll  get  masses  said  for  her  by  every  priest  in  the  town, 


326  Vocations 

and  far  and  wide.  I  don't  care  what  the  bill  is  so  long  as 
she  gets  back  her  seven  senses." 

"Do  keep  calm,  Mrs.  Curtin.  Let  us  pray,"  Reverend 
Mother  said,  patting  Kitty's  hand. 

"Don't  I  know  my  duty  and  my  religion?  'Tis  I  was 
always  the  good  mother  to  her  and  she  to  stick  a  knife  in 
me  at  long  last!"  Mrs.  Curtin  swayed  in  her  chair.  Her 
features  worked  convulsively,  the  red  poppies  in  her  hat 
bobbing  jerkily  from  side  to  side. 

Mother  Calixta  with  a  terrified  look  at  Reverend  Mother 
put  a  restraining  hand  on  Mrs.  Curtin's  arm  which  was 
raised  as  if  to  strike  Kitty,  who  sat  quite  still,  her  face  as 
white  as  a  sheet,  staring  at  her  mother  as  if  fascinated. 

Mrs.  Curtin  threw  off  the  nun's  arm  roughly,  flung  her- 
self passionately  on  her  knees  in  front  of  Kitty,  embraced 
her  legs  and  kissed  the  hem  of  her  habit. 

"God  forgive  me  for  speaking  badly  of  a  holy  nun,"  she 
said.  "Sure  'tis  you're  miles  above  me  on  the  steps  of  the 
throne  of  God.  I  promised  you  to  Him  and  I  in  my  agony. 
Is  it  to  break  my  word  you  would,  and  bring  bad  luck  on 
me  now  and  hereafter?  The  little  money  we  have'd  wither 
up,  and  the  business'd  go  to  pieces.  Though  it's  not  that 
I'd  mind,  but  the  loss  of  my  soul.  I  didn't  leave  a  stone 
unturned  to  give  you  to  God,  but  I  must  have  left  out 
something.  Don't  break  my  heart  and  me  on  my  knees  be- 
fore you?  Your  mother  that  bore  you  and  tended  you  night 
and  day  when  you  couldn't  fend  for  yourself?" 

Kitty  sat  stiff  and  rigid.  Tears  coursed  freely  down  her 
cheeks.  She  had  an  impulse  to  throw  herself  into  her 
mother's  arms,  but  she  seemed  tied  to  her  seat.  She 
couldn't  move  her  hands  that  were  clasped  within  her  wide 
sleeves.  It  was  as  if  her  feelings  were  sealed  up  by  some- 
thing hard  and  bitter  in  her  mind.  Then  suddenly  her 
feelings,  too,  were  frozen.  That  was  it.  All  her  life  she 
had  been  fattened  for  sacrifice.  She  was  the  victim  of  her 
mother's  selfishness.  A  feeling  akin  to  hate  burned  in  her, 
but  only  for  a  moment.  After  all  they  were  both  victims 
alike  of  some  fate,  of  some  horrible  system  that  had  no  pity. 


Vocations  327 

If  she  suffered,  her  mother  suffered,  too.  She  shut  her 
eyes  and  felt  as  if  she  were  sinking  into  a  quicksand.  She 
grasped  the  sides  of  her  chair  to  save  herself  from  being 
engulfed.  The  hard  wood  gave  her  a  feeling  of  security. 
She  opened  her  eyes  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  but  could  hardly 
see  her  mother  through  the  haze  of  her  tears. 

"God  has  unlocked  her  heart,"  Mother  Calixta  said. 

"I'm  sorry,  mother,  but  I  can't.  I  must  go,"  Kitty  said 
gently. 

"You  refuse  the  mother  that  slaved  for  you?" 

"I  must." 

Her  mother  stared  at  her  in  horror.  Then  anger  blazed 
in  her  eyes  and  she  groped  round  with  her  hands  as  if  seek- 
ing a  weapon  with  which  to  strike.  "I  hope  it's  out  dead 
before  my  eyes  you'll  go,"  she  shrieked,  foam  gathering  at 
the  corners  of  her  lips.  She  raised  her  hands  and  with  eyes 
upturned  hissed,  "The  day  you  cross  the  threshold  of  this 
holy  house  may  God  blast  you  with  his  seven  curses. 
Amen." 

Reverend  Mother  stood  up,  horrified.  She  caught  Mrs. 
Curtin,  who  was  struggling  to  her  feet,  by  the  arm,  mutter- 
ing, "Oh,  that  it  should  have  come  to  this!  What  shall  I 
do  ?  What  shall  I  do !  I'm  not  fit.  God  forgive  me.  God 
forgive  me." 

Mrs.  Curtin  shook  herself  loose.  "It's  no  use,  Reverend 
Mother.  I'm  the  bereaved  woman  this  day  and  I  must  have 
my  say.  From  this  day  out  I  have  only  one  daughter." 

"Poor  darling,  innocent  Winnie,"  Mother  Calixta  said. 
"She'll  be  always  a  comfort  to  you." 

"She  will,  the  saint.  And  I'll  need  all  that  even  she  can 
give  me,"  Mrs.  Curtin  gave  a  breathing  space  to  her  anger, 
which,  however,  in  a  moment,  broke  out  afresh. 

"As  for  you,  you  hussy,  you  changeling,  you,  you'll  never 
darken  my  door.  Not  a  penny-piece  of  my  hard-earned 
money  will  you  ever  touch.  It's  God's  money  and  not  for 
the  likes  of  you.  I  know  my  religion  better  than  to  encour- 
age sin  that's  as  black  as  hell." 

"This  has  gone  too  far.    You  must  stop.  It's  very  wicked 


328  Vocations 

of  you."  Reverend  Mother  spoke  with  authority,  but 
added  weakly,  "It's  all  my  fault.  It's  all  my  fault." 

"I  beg  God's  pardon  and  yours,"  Mrs.  Curtin,  somewhat 
taken  aback  and  half  shamefaced,  said.  "But  I  couldn't 
stand  by  and  see  God  and  my  holy  religion  trampled  in  the 
dust  by  my  own  flesh  and  blood." 

"A  wounded  mother's  feelings,  Reverend  Mother,  dear- 
est," Mother  Calixta  said  sympathetically.  "But  if  the 
wicked  girl  repents,  Mrs.  Curtin?" 

"Then  I  won't  be  behindhand  with  God.  I'll  call  back  my 
curse  and  give  her  my  blessing."  Mrs.  Curtin  glared  at  her 
daughter. 

Kitty  sat  quite  still,  her  eyes  closed.  She  had  a  curious 
feeling  of  being  a  ball  which  people  were  playing  against  a 
wall.  She  heard  distinctly  every  word  that  was  •  spoken ; 
but  her  mother's  voice  gave  only  the  impression  of  the  hard 
thud  against  the  wall,  and  the  nuns'  voices  the  soft  thud 
of  the  rebound. 

She  felt  Reverend  Mother's  hand  on  her  wrist  and  stood 
up  mechanically.  "I  can't  see  any  way  out,  God  help  me. 
But  I'll  pray  again.  Go  to  your  cell,  child,  and  lie  down. 
You  look  done  up,"  the  old  nun  said  affectionately. 

Kitty  went  to  her  room  half  dazed,  and  sat  on  the  end  of 
the  bed.  The  one  fixed  idea  at  the  back  of  her  mind  was 
that  she  must  go.  She  was  tired,  but  she  dared  not  sleep. 
She  might  sleep  on  into  the  night,  till  the  convent  was  shut 
up.  She  sat  erect  in  the  effort  to  keep  herself  awake. 

Soon  a  lay  sister  brought  a  bowl  of  beef  tea  and  some 
dry  toast. 

"It's  many  a  holt  they  have  on  you  in  a  place  like  this," 
she  said,  eyeing  Kitty  curiously,  as  she  arranged  the  tray 
on  the  bed. 

On  her  way  out  she  stood  for  a  moment  with  her  hand 
on  the  handle  of  the  door,  half  turned  her  head  and  said 
musingly :  "What's  to  prevent  anyone  walking  straight 
out  that  has  the  mind  for  it?  And  who  could  say  'boo'  to 
her?" 

"Thank  you."    Kitty  smiled  at  her. 


V  o  cations  329 

"With  all  their  bishops  and  Bernardines,"  the  lay  sister 
muttered  cryptically,  with  a  series  of  nods,  as  she  shut  the 
door. 

Of  course,  that  was  the  thing  to  do,  Kitty  thought.  Her 
distaste  for  food  passed  away  and  she  attacked  it  briskly. 
With  the  last  mouthful  her  spirits  fell  a  little.  She  couldn't 
go  down  through  the  market  in  her  nun's  clothes.  Would 
her  mother  let  her  in?  And  she  hadn't  a  penny  to  take 
her  to  Bessie  Sweetman.  Would  her  father  help  her  against 
her  mother?  He  might,  but  she  wasn't  quite  sure.  And 
even  if  Father  Brady  would  do  anything  it  would  imbroil 
him  with  the  bishop.  She  nodded  with  sleep.  The  difficul- 
ties seemed  to  grow  insuperable.  .  .  .  Everything  depended 
on  getting  down  a  hat  from  the  top  of  the  wardrobe  in  her 
bedroom  at  home.  With  every  effort  it  receded  farther 
from  her  grasp.  .  .  .  She  was  on  the  bank  of  the  river. 
It  seemed  to  beckon,  but  she  drew  back  with  a  loud,  "No." 

Mother  Calixta  stood  beside  the  bed.  Kitty  rubbed  her 
eyes  and  smiled. 

"You  have  repented?  God  be  thanked.  You  said  'No/ 
quite  plainly  to  the  devil.  It  was  the  voice  of  God," 
Mother  Calixta  excitedly  said. 

Kitty  laughed. 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  God  or  the  devil  or  my  soul — but 
just  how  I'm  to  get  away." 

"Of  all  the  depraved  girls  I  ever  knew,  you're  the  worst !" 
Mother  Calixta  exclaimed,  shocked  and  angry. 

"I  wonder  if  Peggy  could  smuggle  up  my  old  clothes. 
Mother  said  she  had  kept  them  all.  And  if  Reverend 
Mother  would  lend  me  a  few  pounds " 

"You're  mad !"  cried  Mother  Calixta.  "To  make  me  a 
partner  in  your  sin!  What  a  blessed  relief  it  would  be  if 
you  did  die,"  she  added  vengefully. 

"I  never  felt  more  alive,"  Kitty  said.  "You  might  just 
as  well  give  in.  You  can't  make  me  out  mad.  I  defy  you 
to  keep  me  here." 

Mother  Calixta  flounced  out  of  the  room.  Kitty  went  to 
the  window  and  lifted  the  blind.  Her  eyes  wandered  over 


330  Vocations 

the  terrace,  the  wide-stretching  park  on  her  left,  the  river 
flowing  quietly  almost  at  her  feet  on  the  right.  It  had  its 
charm.  And  there  was  a  beauty  in  many  of  the  futilities. 
She  loved  Reverend  Mother.  And  Michael  was  a  good  sort, 
and  Thomasine.  Dozens  and  dozens  of  'em.  She  drank  in 
the  pungent  smell  of  the  pinks  glowing  beneath  the  window. 
It  all  seemed  so  peaceful  now :  the  long  shadows  of  the 
trees,  the  sleek  Guernseys  lazily  cropping  the  lush  grass. 
Was  she  just  a  misfit?  It  was  more  than  that,  of  course, 
but  she  was  liking  them  now  that  she  was  going.  Why 
was  she  going?  She  hardly  knew.  Only  just  that  she 
must.  Goodness,  there  was  the  sun  low  down.  She  must 
have  slept  and  slept.  She  must  see  Reverend  Mother  and 
cut  the  ridiculous  knot. 

The  door  was  flung  open  and  Winnie  rushed  in. 

"Oh,  Kitty,  poor  dear  Mother  Calixta  is  in  despair.  You 
can't.  ..." 

"I  can." 

"You  aren't?" 

"I  am.    Don't  be  a  fool,  Winnie." 

"I'll  never  speak  to  you  again."  Winnie  proudly  drew 
herself  up.  "Don't  make  me  forget  that  I'm  a  holy  nun. 
You  wicked,  wicked  girl,  giving  up  the  sanctity  of  the  con- 
vent to  steep  yourself  in  the  sin  and  wickedness  of  the 
world.  I  might  have  known  the  kind  you  were  when  you 
resisted  the  entreaties  of  that  blessed  saint  on  earth." 

"Who  gave  you  permission  to  be  here?  Be  off  to  your 
work,"  Mother  Michael  said  sharply,  from  the  door. 

Winnie  blushed  and  bit  her  lip.  "I  just  felt  the  inspira- 
tion— I  couldn't  resist  it,"  she  said,  with  uplifted  eyes. 

"Be  inspired  now  to  go  off  about  your  business,"  Mother 
Michael  told  her  dryly. 

She  watched  Winnie's  pouting  side  face  till  it  was  hid- 
den by  the  door,  sighed  when  the  door  closed  with  a  bang 
and  said: 

"I  wish  it  were  you  who  was  staying." 

"Winnie  is  the  saint  of  the  family,"  Kitty  said,  with  a 


Vocations  331 

shrug.     "You  have  made  up  your  mind  I'm  going  then?" 
she  added,  smiling. 

"/  have.  Calixta  is  weeping  in  the  noviceship,  smothered 
in  the  smelling-bottles  of  her  little  fools.  Reverend  Mother 
is  in  bed.  Her  conscence  won't  allow  her  either  to  keep 
you  or  let  you  go.  She  thinks  she'll  be  damned  if  you're 
made  to  stay;  and  that  you'll  be  damned  if  you  go  with- 
out the  bishop's  permission.  And  as  she  knows  he  won't 
give  it  she  has  nervous  prostration." 

Two  lay  sisters  brought  in  a  trunk  and  a  hat  box. 

Kitty  held  her  breath.  "Did  you  do  it?"  she  asked 
brokenly. 

"No,"  Michael  snapped.  She  waited  till  the  lay  sisters 
had  gone.  "I  think  I  would  have  when  all  failed — and  by 
all  accounts  the  bishop  cooked  our  goose  this  morning — 
but  I  didn't  get  the  chance.  You've  put  me  in  a  hole,  you 
know,  unless  your  father  is  generous.  He  did  it.  Blew 
your  mother  into  fits.  Came  up  here  with  your  things  ten 
minutes  ago  and  threatened  to  pull  down  the  convent,  choke 
the  bishop  and  every  nun  that  stood  in  your  way.  Luckily 
he  saw  me.  The  game  was  up,  and  I  tried  another  tack  for 
holding  on  to  your  money.  Butter  wouldn't  melt  in  my 
mouth.  He's  coming  back  for  you  at  nine  o'clock.  It's 
eight  now.  I'll  send  you  up  your  supper.  Eat  a  good  one, 
for  you're  going  a  long  journey.  All  your  clothes  are 
there." 

"Not  home?" 

Michael  laughed  grimly.  "He  was  brave  enough  with 
me,  but  he's  afraid  of  your  mother.  Between  ourselves  I 
think  he  and  Peggy  Delaney  packed  the  things  and  stole 
away  with  them  while  your  mother  was  busy  in  the  shop. 
Dublin — by  the  night  mail.  I'll  come  up  for  you  when  the 
sisters  have  gone  into  night  prayers — no  good-byes.  You're 
a  fool,  you  know,  but  God  send  you'll  be  no  worse  off  out- 
side than  you'd  be  here,"  she  added,  with  a  frown  and  a 
slight  break  in  her  voice  as  she  hurried  out  of  the  room. 

Kitty  unpacked  quietly.  All  emotion  seemed  to  have 
dropped  from  her.  She  had  a  vague  curiosity  as  to  what 


332  Vocations 

clothes  her  father  and  Peggy  had  chosen,  and  a  keen  regret 
that  they  were  so  old-fashioned.  She  saw  mirrored  on  the 
dress  she  held  up  to  the  wavering  light  a  smart  Selina 
Thornton  as  she  appeared  on  the  day  of  her  profession. 
.  .  .  This  was  dreadfully  old-fashioned  and  she'd  look  a 
fright.  But  it  would  be  dark  when  she  was  on  her  way  to 
the  train.  She  took  off  her  habit  and  dressed  quickly.  Hap- 
pily she  hadn't  a  glass  in  which  to  see  herself  in  that  hat 
with  her  short  hair.  But  whoever  brought  her  supper 
would  tell  her  whether  she  was  even  passable. 

It  was  the  same  lay  sister  who  had  brought  her  lunch. 

"Then  that's  that,"  she  said,  without  surprise,  when  she 
had  put  down  the  tray,  looking  at  Kitty  approvingly. 

"How  do  I  look?" 

"A  bit  dowdy,  but  you  have  the  youth.  I  used  to  be  in 
the  dressmaking  and  millinery  before  I  came  in,  and  I  keep 
up  with  the  fashion  papers.  If  I  had  an  hour  or  two  at 
you  I  could  smarten  you  up." 

Kitty  shook  her  head. 

"It's  an  easy  life  you're  leaving  to  face  the  world,"  the 
nun  said,  as  she  went  heavily  out. 

Kitty  ate  her  supper,  standing  by  the  window.  The  red 
light  in  the  north-west  shone  through  the  branches  of  the 
trees.  Was  she  a  fool,  as  Michael  said,  to  go  out  into  that 
darkening  world,  hardly  knowing  why?  The  voices  and 
laughter  of  the  nuns  floated  up  from  the  community-room. 
The  cracked  voice  of  Sister  Luke  sang,  "Who  is  Sylvia?" 
Kitty  waited  for  the  usual  little  flutter  of  applause  and 
sighed  tolerantly  when  it  came.  .  .  .  She  had  never  been 
of  them.  And  now  she  was  going  to  live.  .  .  . 

Two  lay  sisters  came  and  took  away  her  boxes.  Kitty 
stayed  on  at  the  window  staring  at  the  black,  blurred  trees. 
She  did  not  even  know  where  she  was  going  to  in  Dublin. 
Not  that  it  mattered.  Nor  what  she  was  going  to  do.  She 
had  a  momentary  ache  for  the  familiar  lights  of  the  town 
which  shone  with  an  unusual  brightness,  and  a  timid  fear 
of  the  darkness  beyond.  A  fresh  voice  whistled  cheerfully. 
She  could  hear  the  tramp  of  youthful  footsteps  on  the 


Vocations  333 

pavement  outside  the  convent  gate,  and  the  echo  of  happy 
laughter.  That's  what  mattered — to  be  free,  to  live. 

"Come,  dear,"  Mother  Michael  said  gently. 

They  went  down  the  stairs  without  a  word.  In  the  hall 
Mother  Michael  kissed  her  on  the  cheeks  and  mouth,  whis- 
pered "Be  happy,"  and  held  the  front  door  open. 

"Hurry,"  her  father  said,  from  the  foot  of  the  steps. 
"It's  not  too  much  time  we  have." 

"This  is  a  bad  business,  a  bad  business,"  he  added,  half- 
way to  the  gate.  "It's  women,  women,  convents  and  nuns, 
priests  and  bishops.  The  town'd  be  poisoned  agin  you. 
Dublin  is,  maybe,  best.  Religion  has  put  a  queer  twist  in 
your  mother.  She  might  sober  down.  But  not  yet.  Oh, 
not  yet,  by  any  manner  of  means,"  he  added  ruefully. 
"  'Johanna/  I  said,  Td  rather  be  dead  than  be  a  slave  in 
my  soul.'  And  that's  why  I  won't  let  nun  or  bishop  say  a 
word  agin  you,  Kitty.  But  the  poor  woman  couldn't  see 
it.  Let  us  keep  on  the  dark  side  of  the  street.  There's 
Joe  Duggan,  now,  that  I  thought  the  world  and  all  of.  An 
hour  ago  I  asked  him  if  he'd  marry  you,  and  believe  me  or 
no,  he  shirked  it.  I  could  see  the  desire  of  it  in  his  eyes, 
but  the  courage  failed  him.  And  he  thinks  he's  a  free  man, 
chairman  of  the  Town  Board  now  and  a  desperate  poli- 
tician that'd  die  for  the  rights  of  man  and  all  that.  Offered 
to  pay  me  back  to-morrow  what  he  owes  me — all  in  deadly 
faer.  'A  vowed  nun,'  he  said,  green  in  the  face.  You'll 
have  a  hard  time,  girleen." 

"Poor  Joe,"  she  said  lightly.  "Where  am  I  going  to, 
father?" 

"Here  put  that  in  your  breast,  and  there's  more  and 
regular  where  it  comes  from.  I  made  my  own  way  in  the 
world  and  I  won't  be  browbeaten.  Work,  girl.  It's  the 
great  thing  for  filling  the  heart.  And  here's  an  address  to 
stay  at  in  Dublin.  You  have  some  friends  in  Dublin — 
girls  or  the  like?" 

"Oh  yes,  I'll  be  all  right." 

"I  was  at  my  wits'  end  trying  to  know  where  to  lodge  you 
in  Dublin.  Where  I  stay  myself,  off  and  on,  is  rough  and 


334  Vocations 

ready.  By  the  luck  of  the  world  I  thought  of  the  new 
organist,  and  he  a  Dublin  man  and  all.  You  don't  know 
him.  I  told  him  everything  and  he  took  a  power  of  trouble. 
Wired  himself  to  a  decent  woman  whose  lodgings  he  knew 
of,,  asked  her  to  meet  the  train.  Could  he  do  more  if  he 
were  my  own  son,  and  he  almost  a  stranger,  so  to  speak?" 

"Almost,"  she  said  vaguely. 

"Be  careful  of  men,"  he  said,  as  he  hurried  her  into  the 
waiting  train.  "I'd  go  myself  with  you  only  your  mother 
is  in  such  tantrums — but  she'll  quieten  down.  Good-bye, 
and  remember  I'm  always  at  your  back." 

She  smiled  quietly  and  often  as  she  lay  huddled  back  in 
the  corner  of  the  compartment.  Should  she  ever  see  George 
Lynch  again  ?  Hardly.  Had  she  ever  really  forgotten  him  ? 
He  seemed  to  have  passed  out  of  her  mind.  Yet  it  was  he 
made  her  decide  to  leave.  Was  there  anything  in  that? 
She  didn't  know.  But  she  would  never  be  a  fool  again. 
He  remembered  her,  bothered  about  her,  did  not  condemn 
her.  .  .  .  Bessie  Sweetman  would  know  lots  of  nice  men. 
She  slept  with  a  smile  on  her  lips. 


THE  END 


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